


Being in love with Molly Hooper

by KendraPendragon



Series: Victorian!AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, Victorian!AU, molly being brave as always, sherlock being in love, sherlock being jealous, sherlock fighting for his molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraPendragon/pseuds/KendraPendragon
Summary: Four years they are acquainted, Mr. Holmes being cold and rude to Mrs. Watson's best friend. Until one of those hostile encounters end with a kiss - and Sherlock Holmes realises that he is utterly, foolishly in love with Molly Hooper. Of course that's when a childhood friend walks back into her life and Sherlock is confronted with the fear of losing the woman he loves before he ever gets the chance to speak...





	1. The scent of jasmine on your lips

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part I of a three-part series. This part as well as part II are already written (which I'm ridiculously proud of). It is very, very dear to me. After months suffering from writer's block, this story poured out of me so unexpectantly. It made me incredibly happy and it helped me through some stuff. So I hope with all my heart that you will love this AU as much as I loved writing it.  
> This will be updated once a week - unless you all scream for more, lol. I'd say every Saturday, for it is my favorite day of the week.  
> As always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated.

The scent of burning candles, food, sweat and many different perfumes make Miss Molly Hooper's nose wrinkle in disgust. If only she had taken one deep breath in the foyer, she thinks but enters the ball room regardless. When she sees the high ceilings, the arched windows and the magnificent fresco on the ceiling, the thick air is quickly forgotten. Indeed, it is a beautiful room and for the first time she feels gratitude that her mother made her come. Completely ignoring the couples on the dancefloor, Molly inspects the graceful, precise lines of the painter (she has to ask Mr. Anderson for his name). She must look very odd, slowly walking through the room, staring at the ceiling. Molly never notices when she is behaving socially awkward. Not that she cares much. At the age of 26, she is almost an old maid, more or less a social outcast, pitied at best. She had accepted it a long time ago and to be honest, she is glad for it. She's never been an outgoing, chatty person, isn't good at small talk or flirting, for that matter. She enjoys a good book much more than a meaningless conversation with a stranger. Just at this thought her eyes dart through an open door to find a little library. She is intrigued.  
  


~oOo~  
  


Sherlock's mouth curls up into a smile as he watches Molly Hooper walk along the edge of the ball room, her head raised to the ceiling, her mouth hanging open to angle her head just a bit more. He always finds her in the crowd, always sticking out of the many dull faces in one way or another, his favorite moment being seeing her hiding behind a decorative paravent reading a book during a ball with twice as many people. He mocked her for weeks. And now, Sherlock notices as he follows her on the other side of the dance floor, it seems Miss Hooper's attention has been caught by something else. He's been in Anderson's house often enough to know exactly where she is going. Finally, some amusement at this dull event.  
Making sure Mrs. Watson doesn't spot him (always so observant, that one) as she whirls around the dance floor with her husband, Sherlock slips out of the room, following the doe-eyed woman.  
  


~oOo~

  
Entering through the ajar door, Sherlock remains next to it. Miss Hooper is standing in front of a small, opened cabinet holding a book, curiously exploring. Sherlock knows this cabinet holds Anderson's anatomy books. It's usually locked. His eyes lower to the little shelf. A hair pin. Sherlock's smile widens.

Miss Hooper. Always so shy and silent, trying to blend in, to be forgotten by everyone.

Miss Hooper. Forgetting every sense of propriety when there is something in the way between herself and a good book.

"Are you stealing from our host, Miss Hooper?"  
She squeals, flinches and drops the book. Then she gives him that glare, which is reseved only for him.  
"I'm not stealing", she hisses angrily and bends down to pick up the volume. Sherlock folds his hands on his back and strides towards her, his eyes fixing on the flexing muscles of the pale skin of her exposed back. Obviously, her mother has forced this fashionable, daring dress on her, a last desperate attempt to attract a suitor. Blue. Her mother should know that Molly looks much more beautiful in warm colors like red, brown or even sunflower yellow.  
...Not that he notices such things...  
"All evidence points to the opposite. The hair pin on the cabinet is obvious proof that you picked the lock."  
"...That was already here when I came in", she defends herself as she rises, pressing the book against her low cut front.  
Making a little sigh, Sherlock takes the pin and holds it up to his nose. Then he bends down to the small woman, his nose only an inch away from her hair. He feels her hot breath on his neck as he inhales. A shiver runs down his back, not necessarily unpleasant.  
"Both smell like jasmine, Miss Hooper...must take an awful lot of time to soap up that amount of hair."  
"What does that have to do with anything?" she hisses, her big brown eyes glaring up at him. Ah, there is that angry spark that always improves his mood.  
"You won't intimate..intimidate me."  
His chuckle flushes her cheeks with a lovely pink.  
"Go. Away."  
"We're just making conversation. No need to be rude."  
Miss Hooper turns away from him and puts the book back into the shelf.  
"You're the one who's being rude. Constantly. Every damn time."  
"Swearing?!" he makes an attempt to sound and look appalled.  
She gives a frustrated sigh and shuts the cabinet. After a side glance to Sherlock and biting her bottom lip, she takes the hair pin and locks the door again, biting her lip some more. No doubt she has learned that from Mary.  
Her bottom lip is red and slightly swollen when she turns back to him and puts the pin back into her updo.  
"Why do you always have to anger me?"  
She looks him straight in the eye, standing her ground. After another look into her eyes he shrugs.  
"Boredom. I despise these sort of gatherings."  
"You didn't seem to mind an hour ago when you danced with Miss Adler."  
He stiffens.  
"W-What does that have to do with anything?"  
"Nothing."  
She attempts to go, but then decides otherwise.  
"You know...instead of always scaring me, mocking and belittling me or making me furious, maybe you could dance with me for a change."  
His heart starts beating irregularly and he blinks.  
"W-Why would I do that?"  
"For the same reason you always make me angry."  
"That makes no sense", he defends himself, his stance a little less self-secure than before.  
Molly sees the confusion in his eyes and exhales. She turns back to the cabinet, lets her finger run over the led lines holding the glass together, just to have something to focus on other than the infuriating man beside her.  
"According to Mary, it does make absolutel sense."  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. As much as he adores Mary Watson, that woman is a pest and does everything to make his life difficult. 'More interesting', she calls it.  
"You and Mary spend too much time together. Her wild theories about everybody's lives start to poison your mind."  
"I have to admit, at first I thought the same. But after weeks observing-"  
"Observing what? Me?"  
He tilts his head in a demanding manner and comes a step closer. Unfortunately, that doesn't work on her anymore.  
"Yes. Your behaviour towards me."  
"For what purpose?"  
"To finally understand what we are doing here."  
He makes a disparaging noise.  
"We are doing absolutely nothing, Miss Hooper. Don't let your imagination run wild."  
She turns her head towards him. Her brown eyes confuse him.  
"I think you're wrong."  
He opens his mouth to retort but all of a sudden she takes a big step forward and the proximity of her body to his, the wave of heat and floral perfume clashing against him, freezes him to the spot. He doesn't do well with proximity he doesn't initiate. But she's not done. It happens so fast he can't stop her; his arms are still behind his back.  
Molly Hooper stands up on her tiptoes. Her face only an inch away - and then even that inch is gone.  
Her lips on his.  
Warm. Soft. Tender.  
A jolt rushing through his body. His eyes flutter shut. He tilts his head down; to her. To feel more of those small lips he has ridiculed a thousand times; which feel more wonderful than anything he has ever touched.  
A second would have been a peck.  
Five seconds would have been considered chaste.  
But this kiss lasts longer. And there is nothing chaste about it.  
Feelings bloom in his heart, spread in his chest, heat his body. He moves his lips over hers with a tenderness unkown to himself. When he increases the pressure, so does she. Her hot, panting breath hits his cheek and he sets her lips free, gives her and himself the opportunity to draw another deep breath. His nose brushes along hers as he tilts his head to the other side and leans in again. The touch of her mouth sets off another explosion in his head.  
He is still standing with his hands behind his back, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles are white and his fingers are hurting. She doesn't touch him either. It's only their mouths, noses and cheeks touching, kissing, but that is almost too much for Sherlock already. Miss Hooper must always challenge him. And she has no mercy on him.  
When she parts her lips, his knees weaken. This is too much, he thinks and desperately fights for self-control. He's not the best at that.  
But for her...  
With a painfully fast beating heart he parts his lips, too, and automatically his tongue moves. They meet in her mouth, her tongue nudging against his, the curious velvety tip licking his, tasting it.  
It is the best feeling in the world. He never wants this moment to end. He never wants to stop kissing Molly Hooper.  
Just when everything inside Sherlock screams to grab her and make her his, right here and now, Miss Hooper sinks back to her feet. To his great dismay his head follows her, unwilling to break the kiss, helpless, already addicted to her taste.  
His eyelids are heavy and he needs a second to catch his breath and open his eyes.  
The world looks different.  
She looks different.  
...So very beautiful.

Her eyes stare at him, the tenderness in those deep brown pools making him yearn for her arms. Both their heads are still empty, so they use the time to slow their heartbeats and steady their breathing. Molly finds her voice first. It makes him feel like a fool.  
"This is what we're doing, Mr. Holmes."  
Sherlock still can't think, too shaken by that kiss. He stares at her like a simpleton, with wide eyes, parted lips and a hint of pink in his cheeks.  
He hears her draw another breath, then she mumbles a farewell and flees the room.  
It hurts.  
But that pain clears his head. Finally, he lets go of his hands. They're hurting, but he welcomes this pain, too. Physical pain - that is something he understands. This...tenderness in his heart...this is too frightening to analyse. So, with a deep breath, he locks it away in his mind palace, unwilling to deal with these feelings now or ever. Sherlock is determined to step out of this damned library and never think about this kiss ever again, when he realises that he can't go.  
First, he has to fight down this bloody erection...

 


	2. Not in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is trying to handle the storm of emotion Molly has left inside him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A what the heck. Have the second chapter already! I really like this one. I love Mary's and Sherlock's friendship. <3

Although he doesn't want to, his eyes search her in the crowd as soon as he emerges from the library. He searches the entire ground floor and the terrace before he is sure she is gone. And it makes his heart clench. For a moment he feels like he's been abandoned. Surrounded by London's high society, he feels alone. The warmth on his lips, this last reminder of her kiss, is carried away by the cool night wind. For a long time he stands on the terrace, staring up at the dark night sky, his chest rising and falling quickly, and he tries to fight down this burning need to run. To her home. Into her room. Into her bed. Begging her to take him in her arms and never let go.   
"Everything alright, Sherlock?"  
He stiffens. The source of his inner chaos.   
"No, thanks to you."  
"What did I do?"  
Mary Watson comes to stand beside him.   
"Mingled into my affairs, as usual."  
He glares down at her, being more furious with her than ever. For a moment she looks confused, then her eyes dart over his face. She deduces him. Her eyes widen when she understands.  
"She did it. She confronted you."  
Sherlock's clenching jaw is answer enough. She claps her hands together. His misery is her joy.   
"What happened? Tell me everything."  
He takes a deep breath and turns his head away. He knows it's a mistake to tell her. But these feelings - he can't deal with them, doesn't understand them. He needs her help.   
"She kissed me."  
She gasps and skips with joy like a little girl.  
"Oh Sherlock!" She hooks her arm under his. "Your first kiss!"  
"I have been kissed before", he hisses angrily.   
"Not by someone you love."  
"What?!"  
It's a gasp. A truly shocked gasp. He doesn't love Molly Hooper!  
"I don't love Molly Hooper!"  
He says it a little too loudly. But he has to make her understand.   
She doesn't. Mary is still all excitement and, completely ignoring his statement, cups his face with both hands.   
"Oh, my darling. I'm so happy for you. Wasn't it wonderful? I'll never forget my first kiss with John. What did you do? Did you take her in your arms? That is even more wonderful, isn't it? Did you french kiss? I bet you did, you scoundrel." An excited giggle leaves her. "Did you stand? Or sit? Where did it happen? Not in the ball room, that's for sure. Tell me, Sherlock! I'm bursting!"  
He pulls her hands off his face and turns away. There is a lump in his throat he needs to swallow. He doesn't love Molly Hooper...no...it can't be. He doesn't do love. Sentiment is despicable. The only thing he allows himself is friendship, and even this is confusing enough at times. What he felt, what he still feels - it can only be desire. Desire is natural, a natural urge. Even he can't repress it. He was aroused, was he not? Yes. It's desire he feels. Nothing more. Never more.  
"Oh, Sherlock!"  
That's when he realizes he has spoken his train of thoughts out loud.   
"Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to Molly. You've tortured yourselves for so long. Just stop finding excuses and face the truth that you love this woman. You love her with all your heart and you long for her. Finally admit that to yourself."  
"Never!"   
Mary grasps his hand, the joy gone, now there is worry and tears in her eyes.  
"You fool. Stop this. Don't let her go, Sherlock. After all these lonely years you finally found her. She is the one. She is strong enough to endure the pain that comes with loving you. She will help you, guide you, and if you let yourself be loved by her then you will be so happy...so goddamn happy you will annoy all of us."  
His chest tightens with every word she says. His bottom lip trembles. He leans forward, grasping the balustrade for support. There is this feeling again. This illogical, desperate need to be in her arms, to be held by her, kissed by her, to feel her warmth and smell her scent. His head is spinning.   
"Stop!"  
Almost frightened does he look at his friend now, so frightened. Sherlock knows what sort of a man he is. Only three years ago her husband and her carried him out of an opium den, almost finished. Molly was there, too. He will never forget the tears in her eyes before she turned away to get a bowl of water, how her hands shook as she dipped the cloth inside the water and tenderly pressed it against his forehead, her lips merely a thin line. This picture of her wet eyes haunt him to this day. He hasn't touched an opium pipe since...yet. Even though he always denies it to the outer world, deep down he knows he's an addict, unable to fight the need for something that gives his busy mind rest once in a while. Either that or he'll run mad.   
No, he can't be loved. He has already broken the hearts of his friends too many times. And her heart, as well. Despite all the bickering and mocking, somehow she cares for him enough to suffer when he almost kills himself. He owes her for that. He loves their banter. It's so dear to him, so very dear. Not for the world would he give that up. Ever.   
"Miss Hooper deserves much better than me, Mary. Someone who makes her happy. Who can love her...like she deserves to be loved."  
Her hand slides up his arm, hooks under it again. Mary leans against him, her face close.   
"Sherlock...she has chosen you."  
His eyes fall close. Such happiness in his chest, sudden and aching, driving tears into his eyes. Helplessly, he shakes his head.   
Mary's gloved hand cups his cheek, makes him look at her. Her thumb tenderly brushes his cheekbone.   
"Be brave, Sherlock. For her. For both of you. I have faith in you."  
"Am I interrupting something?"  
Two heads dart toward the terrace door. There stands Miss Adler in her elegant red dress, her fan in her hands, a cheeky smile on her red lips.   
"I don't think your husband would appreciate this sort of intimacy, Mrs. Watson...unless this is a...triangular arrangement?"  
Sherlock feels Mary stiffen next to him. Surprisingly, she holds her tongue. Instead she turns to Sherlock, gives him a meaninful look and a stroke of his cheek, then she lets go.   
"I don't know what you want with this woman", she whispers in annoyance and then leaves, the women exchanging amused and angry looks as she passes Miss Adler. When Mary is gone, Miss Alder gives Sherlock her typical look; hungry, promising.

He wants to sleep with her.

No, he wants to forget about Molly Hooper, and assumes this is the easiest way. But when he pulls Miss Adler roughly into his arms and kisses her, he feels nothing but pain. Her taste is bitter on his tongue. It's not the same. There is no warmth, no tenderness in her kiss. This kiss is pure desire, and he doesn't like it. It's not what he needs; not what he craves.  
So he lets her go, gratefully taking her slap when he tells her he doesn't like her taste. As soon as she's gone he wipes her kiss off his lips and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He has erased Molly's kiss; her taste and scent completely gone now.   
Helplessly, he groans and bends over, pressing his forehead against the cold rough stone of the balustrade.   
He's not in love with Molly Hooper.

**...He's not**.

 


	3. Heartstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock learns how it feels to be without the woman he's not in love with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday in Germany, so here is the weekly update! I want to thank all of you for the warm feedback to this story. You will never know how much it means to me. I hope you will fall in love with my take on Victorian Sherlock and Molly as much as I did as we continue to follow them on their journey.

Three days he hides in his flat, reliving the library scene over and over again until he's close to madness. Finally he jumps out of bed, bathes, shaves and puts his clothes on (the purple waistcoat she has admired once, right before he had ridiculed her dress), and sets off to the Watsons, ready to face his demon. It's Wednesday. Mary and Molly always spend it together. His heart is beating in his throat when he's let into the parlour, expecting her there - but only finding Mary. She lifts her head and as soon as her eyes sadden, his chest tightens.  
"What?"  
Mary puts her needlework to the side and folds her hands in her lap.  
"Sherlock...Molly is gone. She has accompanied her aunt and uncle on their trip to Scotland...they're gone for six weeks."  
Sherlock is frozen to the spot. His chest is tight. For a split second there is that feeling of abandonment again. He feels all alone in the world. That's when he realizes that for the past four years, he's seen Miss Hooper almost every day. They've never been apart for such a long time in all their acquaintance. Sherlock doesn't know what to feel. So he does what he can do best and displays disinterest. He sits down on the opposite sofa and picks up the newspaper from the little table and unfolds it.  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."  
He wants to reply, but there is a lump in his throat.  
  
Six weeks without her.  
  
As the minutes pass in silence and the clock on the mantle is ticking time away, he convinces himself that this is a good thing, that it will help to get a hold of his emotional imbalance.

~oOo~

It seems like he can't escape Miss Hooper all that easily. Her ghost is still haunting him in her letters, which she sends frequently to Mary. He has the misfortune to be present every time they arrive and Mary insists on reading them aloud for her husband, who adores Molly, too. Every Watson, even little 3-year old Rosie is completely taken with the woman that Sherlock has seen drawing a dead bird that had flown against her window once.  
After three weeks it has more or less become a Watson tradition to gather in the parlor and read her letters. She writes every second day. Little Rosie always climbs on Sherlock's lap and plays with the buttons on his waistcoat or with his fingers while she listens intently to her mother's voice. Sherlock always looks at Rosie during these minutes, stroking her golden locks, pretending not to listen. But he does. He sees Miss Hooper clearly as she gives description of what she has done and seen. She loves every minute of the trip, finding everything so very interesting, often includes landscape drawings or old gaelic runes she copies from tomb stones. She sends sea shells and dragon fly wings for Rosie, claiming them to be the wings of a faerie, sends a brooch for Mary and fine whiskey for John. Sherlock tries not to envy them. Then one day he tries to force his heart to beat normally when Mary reads out aloud that the package in her lap is for Sherlock. He tries to appear unaffected, waits for Rosie to hop off his lap and fetch the package for him from her mama.  
"It's heavy, dear, careful", Mary instructs and Sherlock smiles when Rosie nods, bites her bottom lip and carries the rectangular package over to her godfather. His heart beats faster when he takes it, his fingers undoing the knot Miss Hooper has tied only a few days ago. When he pulls the brown paper away and opens the elegant brown box (that alone must have been pricey), his chest tightens.  
" _It contains samples of sand I have collected from every shore, dried and accurately labelled, of course. I attempted sand art in the last bottle, which went horribly wrong, naturally, but oh well. If nothing else, Mr. Holmes will find pleasure in commenting on my poor artistic skills._ I"  
Sherlock pulls out the little corked flask, his eyes fixed on the waves of white, black and pebbled sand. His heart aches. He doesn't know why.  
" _There is also a stone in there that made me think of him. Don't know why, really. Maybe it's the melancholic highland air finally getting to me. I miss you all dearly._ "  
Sherlock doesn't hear the rest. His long fingers curl around the perfectly oval, smooth stone, a beautiful, pristine white with a single black line running through it from top to bottom, ironically expanding into a small black blob where the human heart would be if you'd compare the stone to a human body. He stares at it for the rest of the letter, with each intake of breath a pang in his heart. Molly thought of him when she saw it, picked it up from the ground, took it back to her lodgings, cleaned and polished it.  
"It's beautiful, uncle Sherly", Rosie says, her small hands sliding into his free one.  
Beautiful. Has she thought that when she picked it up?  
"Yes", Sherlock croaks and his eyes dart up to Mary.  
She gives him an encouraging smile. Sherlock's eyes dart down to his stone...her stone. In that moment he is hit full force with the fact that he misses her. So much.  
Struggling for composure he closes his hand around the stone. His eyes fall close only a second at the feeling of the smooth surface against his skin and all it stands for, then he puts the stone into the pocket of his waistcoat and distracts himself and everyone else by inspecting the sand samples with Rosie, letting her uncork the little flasks and pouring a tiny bit of sand from every shore into her little hand, telling her that she now holds an entire country in her palm. With Rosie, he likes to be poetic. All the while he feels the stone on his chest, his heart beating against it. That night he will lie in his bed staring at the stone for hours, thinking of warm lips, the scent of jasmine and soft brown eyes until he falls asleep, his fingers securely wrapped around his gift.

~oOo~

The stone is always with him, wherever he goes. It's silly and ridiculous and if Mary would find out he would never hear the end of it. Its weight on his chest calms him, somehow. It's pleasant, a pleasant reminder that she is thinking about him, too.  
At least that's what he believes.  
These beliefs are shattered a week and a half later, when he sits in the Watsons' parlor and Mary reads Molly's last but one letter.  
" _Dear Mary_ , " she starts all cheerfully, Rosie sitting on Sherlock's lap and Watson leaning against the fireplace as usual, " _I can't even begin to describe to you how happy I am. The scottish weather has been nothing but fine these last few days and I spent most of my time at the shore, collecting more shells for Rosie and walking along the beach, admiring the sea. But, instead of admiring it alone or with Aunt Prudence and Uncle Henry, I was accompanied by..._ "  
Mary's voice pauses, her eyes hurry over the next lines, then her eyes dart up to Sherlock. Her look stops his heart. His eyes widen. He can't breathe.  
"Mama! Continue! Who has she been walking with?"  
Rosie has to ask her mother a second time before she continues, her voice now low and lacking every emotion.  
". _..Thomas Abbott. Remember him? I told you about him a long time ago. We were playfellows when we were children, absolutely inseparable. I couldn't believe it when he just walked out of the inn we were about to dine in. I immediately recognized him, and he recognized me, too. We were all joy and happiness. My uncle invited him to dinner and I was so grateful and happy. The entire evening did we walk down memory lane, reliving all the adventures and the games we played when we were little._ "  
Mary makes a pause and squirms in her seat before she continues.  
" _Tom's eyes are still the same warm grey I remembered, he has grown into a handsome, charming man. We have been in each other's company almost constantly these past few days and it feels like no time has passed at all. He is still lovely and funny. I haven't laughed this much in ages. We can talk about everything and nothing on our walks. He has..." Mary pauses once more, "taken my hand yesterday and I was struck by the familiarity of that feeling. Even his hand feels the same. I thought I'd never see him again. His parents moved to the continent when we were 15 and I was so heartbroken. To have him back is like a blessing and I can barely contain this joy I feel in my heart, like a missing piece has returned to its place. Have I told you that he gave me my first kiss?_ "  
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut as memory and pain shoot through his heart. He can't bear it anymore. Every word is like a dagger to his heart. He has to get away from her letter, so he lifts Rosie off his lap and leaves, mumbling about a forgotten engagement. He walks away from the house swiftly, images chasing him of Molly's face an inch away from his, her on the beach, holding another man's hand, kissing him. In the end he runs all the way back to Baker Street, crashing down on the stairs, sweating and his lungs burning like fire. His hand clutches his chest and he feels her stone in the pocket of his vest, presses it hard against his heart, trying to chase the other man out of hers. It's pathetic and weak and ridiculous and he scolds himself as he catches his breath, scolds himself even more when a tear runs out of his hot eyes and down his cheek, the pearl of water feeling like ice on his hot skin.  
It takes a long while before he calms down. His limbs feel heavy but he drags himself up the stairs, carrying the extra weight of his aching heart. With his clothes on he falls into bed face first and closes his eyes, passing out almost immediately, the pressure of the stone following him into his dreams.  
  
                                                                                                                              ~oOo~

Mary visits him three days later, the last letter in hand. He's sitting at the desk in his study experimenting, ignoring her.  
"Sherlock...", she starts and the soft, pitying tone in her voice makes him angry, "Molly will return tomorrow...with Thomas Abbott as her uncle's guest."  
He gives no reply. When Mary turns to leave, though, he stops her. Without turning to her he reaches into the pocket of his vest and holds out the stone to her.  
"Give that to Rosie. She admired it many times."  
"Sherlock..."  
He keeps his arm outstretched behind him until Mary's fingers curl around the stone and take it.  
"So you're not going to fight for her? You will give her up, just like that?"  
His eyes fall close. He lets his arm sink.  
"Miss Hooper is happy."  
"She thinks she is happy."  
"What difference does that make?"  
"It makes all the difference in the world. If you just told her you-"  
"I don't, Mary. Give it a rest. For all of our sakes."  
"Sometimes I don't know whether to slap or hug you", she says, her voice shaking. But she leaves and when the door falls close, Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. After a moment of staring at his beaker, he tugs at his vest. It feels wrong. His fingers brush over the empty pocket, sitting right above the dull pain in his chest.

All alone.

Not in love.

 

Unloved.

 


	4. An intimate reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly comes home, Thomas Abbott her new suitor. Sherlock tries to remain cold...and fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to do two updates a week, for the scenes are rather short so far. Thank you for all your lovely comments. They make my day.

Sherlock attends the next social gathering with his head held high, determined to be unaffected of the past seven weeks, determined to show that his heart is cold and his mind free. An hour passes, then he sees her enter with her parents...and him. His mouth falls open. From another part of the room, Watsons' mouth hangs open, too. Mary shows no outer sign of shock at the resemblance between Mr. Abbott and himself and crosses the room to welcome back her friend and to be introduced to Mr. Abbott. He makes her laugh. Sherlock's mouth snaps shut at that. He melts into the crowd and observes him closely.  
He dances with Miss Hooper and Sherlock is reminded how she suggested that _he_ should dance with her. He has never danced with her. He has never seen her dance. His eyes settle on her for the duration of not one, but three dances.  
She is a surprisingly elegant dancer. She looks happy, all smiles and bright eyes.  
Mr. Abbott never leaves her side, has apparently made it his sole task to amuse her. Like children do they giggle. It makes him sick. For her smile brightens her big brown eyes' sparkle and her cheeks' glow; her laughter is the pleasant melody of a violin.  
The rest of the night is pure torture, but he endures and suffers because he thinks it will kill the last bit of sentiment he holds for the woman.

  
~oOo~

  
It works. To some extent. The ridiculous chest pains at the mere sight of her have stopped. They are in each other's company again. The Watsons have invited them all to dinner. Mr. Abbott, as well. Mary obviously is convinced that she was wrong. Finally. She pays no particular attention to Sherlock as they have drinks in the parlour. They chat away happily and Sherlock tries to not be annoyed by Mr. Abbott's voice. He is standing a bit away from the group, by the window, staring out of it. That is, until the smallest Watson makes her entry.  
"Mollily!"  
She is already wearing her night gown, her blonde curls braided. Sherlock watches how Molly turns around. Her eyes brighten as she sees her goddaughter.  
"Darling Rose!"  
She hands her drink to her suitor and rushes through the room, sinking to her knees in front of the girl. Rosamund Watson hugs her godmother, her small fists tightly pressed against her neck.  
"I missed you so much, my little angel."  
With wet eyes Molly leans back and smoothes the girl's curls before she cups her face with both hands, tenderly kissing her forehead.  
"I missed you, too. Mama read your letters to us."  
"Oh, you poor girl. Had to listen to all of my silly ramblings. Did you at least like the sea shells?"  
Rosie nods, then she yawns and rubs her eye. An adorable sight.  
"Rosie, it's time for bed, love. Come. Molly will come for breakfast tomorrow, then you two can play all day."  
Mary attempts to take her daughter's hand, but she pulls it out of reach.  
"No! Sherly!"  
Sherlock sighs, even though bringing Rosie to bed is one of his favorite things to do, puts his glass down and crosses the distance to pick up his goddaughter, ignoring the woman kneeling next to him. He starts to walk out of the room when Rosie squirms.  
"Mollily!"  
Her little hand reaches out to her and with a soft laughter, Molly takes it.  
Sherlock ignores her warmth waving against his back as she follows him closely up the stairs and down the hallway into Rosie's room. Only then does Rosie let go of her and Molly turns down the bed so Sherlock can lay her down. Molly tugs her in and Sherlock sits down next to the girl. Molly comes round and kneels next to him, stroking Rosie's face.  
Her body heat. The scent of jasmine.  
All the wounds he has struggled to close rip open and he feels her breath on his cheek and her tongue in his mouth.  
"Goodnight, darling Rose. Sleep tight. I hope you have a fantastic adventure."  
Rosie is an intense dreamer.  
"Thank you, Aunt Molly. I'm glad you're home."  
"Me too."  
Molly smiles and bends over to give Rosie one last kiss. Then it is Sherlock's turn. His fingertips tenderly glide over the tiny knuckles of her fist.  
"Will we be pirates again tonight?"  
Rosie nods, smiling.  
"Mollily can come, too."  
"I wouldn't miss it for the world. I can steer the ship. What's her name?"  
"Saint Bartholomew."  
"That doesn't sound very piratey", Molly points out and looks up at Sherlock, who only gives her a warning look and a slight shake of his head to not discuss the ship name with her. Molly makes a small 'o' with her mouth when she understands.  
"But I'm sure it's the most dreaded vessel in the seven seas. Is it not so, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Absolutely."  
They smile at each other, then at the girl. She smiles back and reaches for both their hands, holding them as she closes her eyes and quickly drifts off to sleep. The hand holding Molly's is still half a fist and as soon as her goddaughter is sleeping, she opens the girl's palm, careful not to stir her. She expects a toy. But it's not.  
Sherlock stiffens when Molly pulls the stone out of Rosie's hand. His mind goes blank. Feelings spread inside him as Molly places the stone in her palm and looks at it for a long while, her thumbs sliding over the smooth surface. When Sherlock sees a melancholic smile on her face, his heart clenches. Next there is a painful pang when the tip of her slender index finger traces the black line the same way he has done a thousand times.  
"I found it on The Black Sands in Aberdour. A spot of light in the darkness of black pebbles, rocks and sand. It quite stole my breath away and I saw you before my eyes and I...I just couldn't leave it there."  
His eyes are mesmerized by the soft expression on her face. His fingers itch, his skin heats up. His breathing flattens, every intake full of jasmine. How he has missed her scent.  
"Rosie admired it. I didn't have the heart to deny her."  
Molly smiles at his lie, still looking at the stone; the stone he simply gave away.  
"You can't deny her anything. She has you wrapped around her little finger."  
Her eyes dart up for a second, a cheeky glint in her eyes. Her hair shines in the light of Rosie's bedside lamp; it looks like finest Chinese silk.  
"I bet you were appalled, weren't you? Did you accuse me of being silly and ridiculous to gift you such a dull, sentimental thing?"  
When he doesn't reply with a snide comment, she looks up. His insides are in uproar.  
The smile on her lips vanishes as she notices the expression in his eyes.  
Every bit of logic dictates him to just walk away, to go on as he always has, to keep doing what he knows best. But that logic is consumed by her eyes; eyes he has missed so dearly.  
So, unsure of what he is doing, he pulls his hand out of Rosie's grasp to slide it under Molly's fingers, folding them over the stone, making her hold it tight, cupping her hand with his.  
Molly's lips part and her eyes widen. Sherlock can't hold back. He knows there is more in his eyes than he wants to give away, feelings he doesn't understand himself. All he knows is that she is here, alone with him, smelling so sweet and being so warm.  
His eyes lower to her mouth. He craves its taste and warmth and all the scary things it makes him feel.  
"Sherlock..." she can barely whisper before he leans down. She meets him halfway.  
Their lips find each other blindly and Sherlock's insides roar with joy.  
Molly. His Molly.  
Not one moment do their lips part while he pulls her between his legs and wraps his arms around her, pressing her chest against his. The sensation of this, the warmth, the heat of her breasts, the pressure of her upper body in combination with the tender movements of her mouth is a thrill beyond compare. It's frightening and wonderful and he can't breathe from all this heat in his chest and the fast beating of his heart.  
He feels Molly's hands glide up his upper arms and shoulders, coming to rest in his neck. One hand, the one not holding the stone, wanders into his hair, past the layer of pomade to grip the soft curls he smoothes out every morning. This feeling - God, it's marvelous. He mimicks her action, lets his fingers slide into the mass of soft hair he has always admired, if only in secret. He wants to losen her updo and weave through all of it, press a strand to his lips to feel the texture there, but in the far back of his mind he remembers that they're not alone. Yet, he is happy. Gloriously happy.  
He is in her arms.  
He is safe.  
Warm.  
Loved.  
Only releasing her an inch to draw another breath, he opens his eyes to find hers closed.  
So beautiful.  
He can't fight the need to touch her, so he lets himself stroke her cheek with the back of his hand and fingers. Tender. He wants to be tender. Gentle. Careful.  
Molly's eyes open and a jolt rushes through him when he sees the endless pools of brown. They look at each other for a moment, unable to do anything else. They share the same breath. Sherlock's nose nudges hers at a slight tilt of his head. Her beautiful pixie nose. Before he can fight the urge, he fullfills himself a secret wish he had only ever acknowledged in his dreams and kisses this adorable tip. Her elegant brows knit at that and her eyes become wet, her chest heaves against his and for a moment, the fingers in the nape of his neck tighten the hold on his curls. She looks like she wants to say something, tries to find words, her lips parting and closing and Sherlock wishes nothing more than that she would speak, but then she lets out a breath and tilts her head forward, making it unable for him to reach her lips.  
"We should stop", she whispers and lets go of him.  
It hurts when she withdraws, takes her warmth away and makes him feel the cold of the world again.  
"Why?"  
She sinks down in front of him, folding her hands in her lap and opens her palm. Tenderly she strokes the stone with her fingers. A pause. Sherlock realizes too late that he could have prevented more pain if he had just spoken of what he feels, of how much this stone really means to him. But his mind is too slow, too hazy from the delicious kiss. Molly looks up and the tenderness, the unspoken feelings his heart can't understand, are gone.  
"Because we're in our goddaughter's room...and Tom is waiting for me downstairs."  
An icy chill grips his heart. Tom...so informal, so familiar...so intimate.  
Defeat.  
Sherlock nods and automatically offers her a hand when she attempts to get up. She takes it without looking at him and Sherlock can only but cherish this one more second she allows him to touch her. Then her hand is gone. His legs feel weak so he remains on the bed and watches Molly place the stone back into Rosie's little hand. His eyes follow her on her way out. He cannot let it end like this.  
"Welcome home, Miss Hooper."  
Molly pauses at the door, then turns around. Her smile is sad, though she tries to mask it with her cheerfulness.  
"Thank you, Mr Holmes."  
With that, she leaves. Sherlock remains with his goddaughter, takes her little hand which holds the stone in his and stares at it. His head is empty, but his heart is full. Full of her. He closes his eyes and licks his lips, taking a deep breath of jasmine which is clinging to his clothes.


	5. Stars on her skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has breakfast with the Watsons and Miss Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Rosie. I enjoyed writing her and Sherlock interacting with her very much.

He simply cannot stay away. It has been seven long weeks and two kisses. Last night he pondered, tried to make out Molly Hooper's heart. She kissed him. She held him, had pressed herself against him. Surely she still cares for him. But does she care enough to tell her suitor off? Can he, Sherlock Holmes, the man who has mostly insulted and angered her, compete with her first love? And does he truly want to win her heart?  
The concerns are still there, all perfectly reasonable. There is no doubt in him that Molly's life would be easier with Abbott. He observed the man closely last night; nothing wrong with him. No dark secrets. No signs of physical or mental illness. A harmless chap. Dull. He could never make Molly's eyes sparkle. Sherlock, on the other hand...  
During the night, Sherlock thought about marriage. The only marriages he is able to observe closely are the ones of the Watsons and his parents. Both happy, in their own way. No marriage is like the other, apparantly. So, theoretically, a marriage between Molly and himself doesn't have to be breakfast at 9, lunch at 3 and dinner at 7, church on Sundays (his parents. Day after day, year after year. So dull he would rip his hair out within a month). It could be irregular schedules, flexibility in dining times, relaxed Sunday afternoons together in the parlour (or the bed), the occasional adventure together. Molly would like that, certainly. And Sherlock's mouth curled into a boyish smile when he thought about her with him on one of his cases, where he could truly impress her, show her what he could do...teach her a few things. He'd definitely enjoy that.  
  
...There could be children.  
For almost an hour Sherlock tried to deduce what his and Molly's offspring would look like. So many possible combinations, yet the faces he imagined always had her pixie nose and her big brown eyes.

He would have someone to come home to; to come home _for_. After a dangerous, stressful case there would be someone to take him into their arms. Someone to provide comfort and peace. Even if she would already be asleep in their marital bed, he could lay down next to her and touch her, maybe wrap his arms around her if she wasn't a light sleeper, feel her warmth and breathe her scent whilst his brain would process and file away the details of the latest case. He could let his fingers weave through her long hair for relaxation. He'd probably have to unbraid it first, but he wouldn't mind. Not at all.  
  
...There would be kisses. And more. Nights of love, passion and tenderness. He knows he would find it all in her arms. Brave, awkward, clever, spirited Molly Hooper.

As the first grey of dawn filled his room, he had come to the conclusion that Molly Hooper would make him happy. Very happy.  
  
But could he make _her_ happy?  
  
...By God, he wants to try.

  
So here he is, once again standing on the Watsons' porch, ringing the door bell. Mary mentioned yesterday that Molly would be here for breakfast this morning and spend her day playing with Rosie. Alone. Without Abbott.  
The door opens. It's Mary herself.  
"Sherlock! Finally. We were waiting."  
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. She grins up at him.  
That sneaky, clever woman.  
The triumphant smile of his best friend's wife snaps his mouth shut. He puts the hat down on the table by the door and follows Mary into the dining room. His heart skips a beat when he sees Molly sitting to John's left, little Rosie on her lap, both father and godmother feeding the girl with bits of toast, chatting.  
Molly is brilliant with Rosie. She has loved her from the very first time Mary had put her child into her arms. He was there, has seen the starstruck look in her big brown eyes. Love at first sight. As it has been for himself. Sherlock adores Rosie. One of the few things Molly and him instantly agreed on is their mutual love for this beautiful little girl.  
"Sherly!"  
John and Molly raise their heads and Sherlock inwardly straightens. Molly's eyes shine in the morning light and he gives her a small smile and a greeting nod, which she answers.  
"Sherly, Sherly!"  
Rosie holds out the stone to him which has been lying on the table next to her plate.  
"Good morning, Rosie. Watson."  
"Holmes. We were waiting."  
Sherlock blinks.  
"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't sure about the time."  
"Didn't Mary tell you?"  
"Oh, whatever. He's here now and you haven't starved, so let's all sit down. Sherlock-"  
Mary points to the chair to Molly's left. A place setting has indeed been laid out for him. Clever, scheming Mary Watson.  
For once, he is grateful for her meddling and sits down. Immediately Rosie squirms and holds her arms out to him, trying to jump onto his lap, kicking Molly's thighs.  
"Ouch. Rosie, wait."  
Sherlock chuckles and leans down, enfolding his arms around his goddaughter. His arm brushes along Molly's chest, not entirely by accident, and he leans so close he can smell her jasmine scented soap.  
"Now, Rosie, don't break your godmother or she won't be fit to play pirates with us in the garden after breakfast."  
A happy squeal from the girl and she jumps into Sherlock's arms, making Molly flinch at the pressure on her poor thighs.  
"Are you alright?", Sherlock asks lowly, holding Rosie in his arms. His face is still close and Molly's lips part, her eyes darting to his mouth and Sherlock hopes she remembers his taste as he remembers hers.  
"Quite alright", Molly replies with a forced smile and turns her head away.  
Sherlock leans back in his chair to position Rosie on his lap. They have a lovely breakfast and Sherlock feels at peace and happy.  
The family he chose of his own.  
His eyes drift to Molly. Of course she is part of his family. How could he have been so blind seven weeks ago; for four bloody years? How has he been able to ignore this constant pull towards her?  
He feels it so strongly now. It is overpowering. Everything is so at ease at the moment, everyone is relaxed and happy, even him. All these feelings he has buried for so long are on the surface, turning into such a feverous longing his chest is aching.  
His gaze slides over her, She is chatting with John at the moment, her green earring slightly shaking, but it can hold his attention only for a second, then his eyes wander lower, over her green satin blouse, the small breasts hiding underneath (feeling so perfect against his chest), and finally come to rest on the hands in her lap. How he loves these hands. Small, faerie-like. So gentle, so soft.  
Before he knows what he's doing he slips his fingers under her right hand and closes them around it. Her skin is so warm and soft. He wants to hold her hand forever.  
He is so mesmerized by the sight (it fits so perfectly into his), that it takes him a moment too long to realise that all eyes (except Rosie's) are on him, closest of all Molly's. The sudden stiffness in her posture alerts him and his eyes dart up, meeting her astonished, confused look. His mouth runs dry and his heart pumps hard against his chest. John and Mary are staring, as well, Mrs. Watson wearing a surprised but devilishly pleased little smile.  
Rosie rescues him. She shakes his frozen mind with an accidental kick to his chin.  
"Rosie", he says a little too loudly and pulls up Molly's hand to the little girl's face.  
"I have found the first clue to our adventure. Look at the back of this hand. What do you see?"  
Ignoring his flushing cheeks, Sherlock gently presses Molly's hand down on the table in front of the girl, flattening it with a soft brush of his hand. Accustomed and very fond of Sherlock's games, Rosie drops the last bite of toast on the plate, instantly forgotten, and inspects the hand closely, smearing some of the apricot jam on her godmother's skin. To masquerade his slip further, Sherlock pulls the magnifying glass out of the inner pocket of his jacket and hands it to the little detective.  
"I don't see anything, Uncle Sherly. Help me."  
"Look closer. There is something abnormal about this hand that gives the clue."  
Molly huffs next to him, but keeps her hand in place. She would never ruin Rosie's fun.  
"I don't see it."  
"Then you need to compare. Here, take my hand."  
He places his left hand next to hers, grazing her thumb with his own. So soft. Warm.  
"Where are the differences?"  
"Well," little Rosie begins, inspecting both hands and listing the differences like size and colour of the skin and missing half moons on nails. She compares every finger and pulls and tugs at Sherlock's hand, enabling him to touch more of Molly's warm, delicate skin. He will be eternally grateful to the little girl.  
When Rosie gasps, Sherlock knows she's got it.  
"Stars!"  
"Exactly. Well done."  
"I'll get the atlas."  
Rosie jumps off Sherlock's lap and runs off. His eyes find Molly's, smiling proudly at the deduction skills of his goddaughter. His hand is still lying half on hers. Only when he brushes his thumb over the back of her hand does she hastily pull it away and grabs her napkin to wipe off the jam.  
"Stars?" she asks casually, her voice trembling. Sherlock couldn't be more pleased.  
"Five little moles on the back of your hand."  
Once again he dares to take her hand in his, pulls it to him. With his index finger he points, touching her skin every time.  
"Star constellations."  
Molly blinks at him, her cheeks flushing pink. He's still holding her hand.  
"Brilliant", she whispers and her eyes shine the way only he can make them.  
"Yes. Brilliant, indeed", Mary comments and the smart tone in her voice finally makes Sherlock let go of Molly's hand.  
Molly remains mostly silent as Rosie and Sherlock map out their journey with the stellar atlas, holding out her hand dutifully whenever Rosie requires it, throwing in a 'Yes, Captain' and 'Of Course, Captain Thornrose' here and there.  
When Captain Thornrose and her navigator Yellowbeard are finished, Rosie shouts a loud 'To the ship, landlubbers!' and hops off Sherlock's lap and makes her way out into the garden.  
"I think she means us", Sherlock says to Molly with a boyish smile and stands up as well. Then he does something he's never done before: He holds his hand out to her, waiting for her to take it. With big eyes and parted lips she looks up at him for a long second, then she becomes aware where they are, gives John and Mary a small smile and then finally takes his hand. It shouldn't be as thrilling as it feels.   
Sherlock is holding her hand the entire way to their ship, little sparks of electricity rushing up his arm. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the low word count. Hope the sweetness of Sherlock being a lovestruck fool makes up for it. ;)


	6. The kiss of a sea witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing pirates in Watson's garden. Things happen. Beautiful things that make Sherlock's heart sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably my favourite. Loved loved looved writing this. I could feel the sunshine, the intimacy, the ease between them. So I really hope you like this one.

Playing pirates with Rosie is always great fun. During this time Sherlock doesn't have to be an adult. Now he is allowed to let his boyish spirit run free and he always enjoys this to the fullest. Sharing these moments with Molly is wonderful, for she is just as free in the game as he is. Her shyness and reserve fall away and she gives the play her all, melts into her character. It has been one of first things he admired about her, he now realises as he watches her free her long hair from the pins to emphasize her character - a sea witch today - and for one moment Sherlock stands on deck of the wooden ship he has built with his own hands for his goddaughter, and can do nothing else but look at her. As she chases his little fair-haired captain around the ship -she being on the ground, in the 'water' - hissing, crinkling her nose, fletching her teeth and forming threatening claws with her lovely hands, Sherlock's eyes follow her every move, admire the rays of light dancing on her long brown hair and in her big dark eyes. Her cheeks are aglow with life and joy and Sherlock has to catch his breath.  
  
Has she always been so very beautiful?  
  
Rosie shakes him out of his starstruck state as she orders him to get off the ship.  
"Yellowbeard! Catch her!"  
Molly's and his eyes meet and his heart skips a beat. Then he smiles at her and with an "Aye, aye, Captain!" jumps off the brigde right onto the ground and is about to catch the enchanting sea witch when Rosie attempts to jump off the ship, too.  
"Rosie!" Molly gasps and both lunge forward. Sherlock catches her fall and presses the little girl to his chest, exchanging an apologetic look with Molly.  
"Don't tell Mary", he begs her with a breathless whisper before he sets the girl down on her feet. Molly presses her hand to her heart, but nods. Little Rosie, having no notion of what could have happened, of course, squeals and raises an imaginary saber (Mary has confiscated the wooden sabers Sherlock made for them a long time ago) before she chases after Molly, who squeals in turn, grabs her skirts and starts running around in the garden.  
  
Sherlock is so happy. So very happy. He runs after the sea witch with a fast beating heart, trying to catch this enchanting woman. She is brilliant at slipping through his fingers over and over, her brown hair flying in the wind, her laughter filling the air and his heart.  
Finally, he catches her when she slips near the only tree in the garden and loses her balances. His arms are there to catch her.  
Panting hard he steadies her and with sparkling eyes presses her against the tree trunk.  
"Got her, Captain!" Sherlock shouts half-heartedly, his eyes once again captured by the sight of her. Molly looks up at him, her chest heaving, her cheeks, nose and throat a lovely pink, her long hair in wild disarray.  
Sherlock can't help it. His hand brushes a strand of hair out of her face, lets it slide through his fingers. For so long has he wanted to do this. Her hair is so beautiful, so very soft. He watches his fingers weave through it, moves it in the light, lets the golden rays dance on the hazelnut silk. Molly's breath hits his throat and he shudders. He hasn't realised he has leaned in. His eyes dart to hers. They are so bright in the sunlight, like liquid amber. Breathtaking.  
The world around them begins to fade away, their eyes lowering to their mouths. The scent of jasmine fills his nose and Sherlock simply needs to kiss her. He has to.  
"Yellowbeard! I will save you!"  
Rosie, thinking that the sea witch has caught her navigator since the witches' hands are wandering up his arms, tries to save him. Her little hands slip between them. She wants to pull Sherlock away, but due to her height she can only reach his hips and...in between.  
When her little fist tears at him, the white hot flash of pain knocks the air right out of him and he lets out a breathless gasp. His whole system shuts down and instinctively his hands cup his privates. The last thing he sees is Molly's shocked face. Then he goes down, his knees giving way.  
"Man down", he manages to croak as he falls over, cringing through the pain.  
"Yellowbeard!" Rosie shouts in panic and lets herself plop down on his chest, making it worse. He makes another pained, breathless sound. That's when the sea witch giggles. Sodding woman!  
"Not funny", he croaks. She only giggles once more, but then shows mercy as she gently pulls the panicking Rosie away from him.  
"Yellowbeard", Rosie whimpers and Sherlock reaches out to her, takes her hand in his, falls back into his role.  
"I stole the witch's goblet...drank from it...poison..."  
Sherlock goes limp, lets his hand fall and closes his eyes.  
"Yellowbeard!"  
Her scream echoes through the garden. Sherlock can feel Molly's disapproving look on his skin.  
"He can still be saved, Captain. A true love's kiss can bring him back."  
Sherlock feels Rosie plop down next to him and he rolls onto his back when she pushes against his shoulder. A second later her cold, wet lips land on his, her golden locks tickling his cheeks. He remains still.  
"It doesn't work, Mollily."  
"Try again."  
She does. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes.  
"Mollily!"  
"Mr. Holmes", Molly hisses and nudges his thigh with her hand.  
"You do it, Molly. Please. Save him!"  
Oh, how Sherlock loves his goddaughter. Such a brilliant little girl.  
"Oh, um, no Rosie, I...it wouldn't work. It's my own poison, you see, and-"  
"Do it!"  
That comanding tone they all know and fear is Molly's undoing. Sherlock smiles inwardly at her sigh. The light behind his eyelids is blocked out. Strands of her hair fall onto his face before she brushes them away. Her warm breath on his skin. Jasmine.  
As soon as the warm, soft lips land on his Sherlock's hand darts up and catches her neck. With a fast beating heart he holds her in place and gives her a tender kiss.  
Then he opens his eyes, finding hers open and sparkling with anger.  
"To be fair", he whispers against her lips, "the kiss was your idea."  
Before she can protest he pulls her down again, capturing her mouth for a second kiss. Those lips are heaven. Knowing exactly what he is doing Sherlock opens his mouth and lets the tip of his tongue nudge against her bottom lip. A second of hesitance, tension in her neck muscles, then she gives way. Her tongue greets his at the entrance and pushes it back into his mouth for a deep, tender stroke that fills Sherlock's body with heat and his heart with so much longing it makes him dizzy. Gosh, he wants her like this, bent over him, her hands next to his shoulders, her open hair on his chest and between his fingers, her tongue moving deep inside his mouth. Shiver after shiver runs down his spine as he strokes her tongue with his, again and again, the velvety texture feeling so exquisite, the taste of her divine.  
Sherlock is in heaven and never wants to come back to Earth. He wants to stay in his angel's arms forever.  
Unfortunately, his angel sends him back, anyway. Her tongue leaves his mouth and she closes her lips. His heart aches and he lifts his head to follow hers, pulling her back down. _Don't stop,_ he thinks desperately, _please never stop_.   
His lips tremble against hers, a shaky breath escapes him which sounds like a plead. One last kiss, tender and lingering, then Molly leans back. They open their eyes and at the warm glow in her brown pools he wants to pull her right back, but her hand curls around his wrist and pulls his hand out of her neck. Her expression is unreadable as she straightens, but her cheeks are a bright red and her eyes are wide.  
"You're alive!" Rosie squeals happily and hugs her godfather tightly around the neck. Sherlock hugs her, still looking at Molly, who is looking right back. For a second he sees the same intense longing in her eyes that he feels in chest.  
"Well done, Mollily."  
The spell between them breaks when Molly averts her eyes to look at her goddaughter and smiles.  
"That should teach you both not to steal from a sea witch", she says, her voice sounding soft and lovely.  
"Back to the ship!" Rosie orders, but Sherlock keeps her in his embrace and sits up.  
"I think we should take a break. I'm still weak from the poison, Captain. I need rest."  
"Oh...all right."  
Molly and Sherlock share a smile and Molly strokes the girl's head.  
"Why don't we all rest for a bit? It is so lovely here. We can lean against the tree and let the sunshine warm us."  
"That's an excellent idea, Miss Hooper."  
Sherlock, being so happy and encouraged from yet another extraordinary kiss from Molly's lips, waits for Molly to get a blanket from the ship and spread it out on the ground to sit back against the tree, little Rosie still in his arm. Then he lies down next to her, resting his head on her thighs. Before Molly can find her voice to protest at such improper behaviour, Sherlock pulls little Rosie on top of him, tugging her head under his chin. Her little arms hug around his shoulders and both godfather and goddaughter blissfully close their eyes, the sun shining directly into their faces.  
"This...this is not exactly what I had in mind", Molly finally protests.  
"We're perfectly fine, thank you. Are we not, Rosie?"  
"Mhm."  
Sherlock smiles and kisses the top of Rosie's head. The little bundle of energy is about to fall asleep. He concentrates on the signs of her body, her breathing becoming deep and regular, her body relaxing, getting heavier on his chest. From one second to the other, she passes out. Sherlock admires that about her.  
"That was very cheeky of you", Molly says after a while, her voice low to not wake Rosie.  
He doesn't reply. The sun feels warm on his face, as does the thigh against his neck. The scent of washing soap mixes with the scents of jasmine, grass and the spring air. Sherlock inhales deeply, stores this pleasant mixture away in his mind palace.  
"I know you're not asleep, Mr Holmes."  
Sherlock ignores her. The regular breathing of his goddaughter and the warmth of the little body and the sun relax him. He is in no mood to talk.  
Then, horrible woman, a flick of her fingers against his cheekbone makes him flinch. Molly giggles. The girl in Sherlock's arms stirs.  
"Don't wake our goddaughter, Miss Hooper. She just almost lost her beloved godfather, give her some rest."  
"You shouldn't make her believe such a thing, Mr Holmes. She was really frightened. It's too cruel. She's too young to understand."  
Warmth against the left side of his face. Molly's hand. Sherlock turns his head, his cheekbone nudges her palm.  
"She knew you would save me. You always do."  
Molly lets out a disapproving huff. Sherlock nudges her palm with his cheek again, as if by accident while trying to get more comfortable in her lap. Three heartbeats pass, then her warm hand cups the side of his face, her fingertips at his jaw, her thumb shyly, tenderly brushing along his sharp cheekbone. Sherlock shivers, his heart clenches. Her touch so soft. So wonderfully tender.  
"I can't always be there to rescue you", he hears her whisper. Her fingertips travel the outlines of his face.  
"Why not?" he asks softly, trying to keep his voice in check.  
No reply.  
The soft digits wander along his fringe to the right, then dare to slowly brush over his forehead back to the left, along his brow, down the curve of his cheekbone, along the side of his nose. Sherlock is not sure if Molly is fully aware of what she is doing, but there is no way in hell he will stop her. This exploration is a completely new experience, exciting and enjoyable. It feels so wonderfully intimate. It is. Far too intimate in the eyes of the world. But he doesn't care. He longs for her touch and keeps perfectly still.  
  
Shyly do her fingertips brush along his mouth now, one after the other dipping into his cupid's bow. Sherlock inhales the scent of her fingers. There is still a hint of apricot and toast lingering on her skin. To his surprise it tickles when the fingertips slide along the bottom of his lip and, acting on reflex, he sucks it into his mouth, licking it to stop the tickling sensation. Her fingers rest on his chin, wander an inch to the right, along his jaw. Then he feels her thumb brush over his bottom lip, oh so tenderly. Sherlock's breath hikes at the contact, his lips parting just the slightest bit. Her thumb stills in the middle of his mouth. Gone is the relaxation. Suddenly he is all tense, his chest and head filling with heat. He waits. For what he doesn't dare to acknowledge, with his goddaughter in his arm and all. They're in dangerous waters, does it rush through Sherlock's head before her thumb strokes his bottom lip yet again.  
They're drowning.  
Unable to withstand the temptation, he parts his lips further. A pause, making his heart stutter. Has he gone too far?  
Then, good heavens, her thumb brushes over his lips once more and - Lord forgive him - his tongue darts out. Molly gasps when he licks over her skin, just as shy as her. His heart is beating in his throat. This is far too intimate, too sensual. In broad daylight, lying in their friends' garden with their child in his arms, for heaven's sake. How could they lose control like this, every sense of decency wiped from their minds?  
  
In an attempt to apologise for his lecherous behaviour he presses a kiss to her wet thumb. But she doesn't remove it. Instead her other hand cups the other side of his face, beginning the same tender torture. How can he withstand, he thinks desperately, but already his lips part anew and his tongue tastes her skin again. He wants to suck her thumb into his mouth so badly, but when this thought sends a jolt into his groin the heavy fog in his head lifts enough to prevent it. Still dizzy from all these feelings of arousal, longing and shame, he desperately grabs her hand and presses her wrist against his nose and mouth. He inhales her scent deeply, makes her gasp when his teeth graze the tender skin.  
"God, Molly", he pants against her wrist, overcome with such soulgrieving longing for the woman above him. Almost hastily now he opens her palm and presses it against his cheek, fighting down his inner turmoil. The thumb of her other hand soothingly strokes his cheekbone until his heartbeat is back to normal. Finally, he stops pressing her hand against his cheek, only to interlace their fingers and lay them down on her thigh next to his head.  
"I'm sorry", he finally says into the silence, his voice full of the shame he feels.  
"We're both at fault...Sherlock."  
He opens his eyes at that. She has only ever called him by his Christian name once before; last night, right before she kissed him. He will never forget it. Neither will he forget this time. The sun makes him squint his left eye. Looking up at her, he lifts his hand and kisses the back of hers.  
"Never anything else. Promise."  
"I can't possibly-"  
"When we're alone. Or with Rosie. Promise."  
Her eyes look teary, but it might be from the sun.  
"I promise", she agrees after what feels like an eternity and bliss spreads in his heart, making him smile.  
"Molly", he whispers against her hand and closes his eyes.  
He's so happy. He presses her hand to his heart, right next to Rosie's arm, and drifts into a state between wake and dream, his guardian angel watching over him, keeping him safe.


	7. The shadow of sunlight on our skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small interlude of relaxation is observed by the Watsons.

„What the-“  
Mary smiles at the surprised outburst of her husband behind her.   
“Don’t they look beautiful? Like a little family.”  
“Holmes has his head in her lap.”  
“Nothing goes past you, darling.”  
“Is she…is she stroking his hair?”  
Mary sighs happily, her hand on her heart. “Yes.”  
“What on Earth is going on?”  
“It’s called love, John.”  
“But-”  
John Watson is speechless. Seeing his best friends sitting under the maple tree, faces towards the sun, little Rosie in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock resting in Molly’s lap is utterly confusing. It is a scene of complete harmony, which is the last thing John would ever associate with Sherlock Holmes. But there he is lying, one knee bent, one hand on Rosie’s head, his eyes closed as if he is sleeping. And dear Molly continuously lets her fingers comb through his hair, freeing more and more of his sleeked back locks with every stroke.   
“When?”  
When did this happen? They’ve known each other for years, Holmes not giving the slightest hint that he saw more in Molly than a friend, at most. He’s always been so cold to her, sometimes hostile even. More than once had John stepped in when he was particularly cruel to the young woman. It just makes no sense.   
“I think he’s loved her for a long time now. I’ve seen the looks he gives her when he thinks no one is watching.”  
“But he’s been nothing but nasty to her.”  
“Because he is a stubborn manchild who doesn’t want to face the truth that he’s been captivated by her. And how could he not? She’s perfect for him.”  
John opens his mouth to protest, but then he thinks of all Molly’s fine qualities. She has the patience and the heart of an angel. Her sense of humor is wicked and morbid and often enough Sherlock is the only one who laughs at her jokes. She is clever and interested in science, has a strange fascination with death and murder, just like the consulting detective. But is that enough to found a marriage on? Can she withstand when the storm that always seems to rage deep inside him breaks free? Can she endure the pain he inflicts on the people closest to him?  
When they sit together like this, John can almost believe it.   
“What if this is just another game for him?”  
“I would never have spoken to Molly if I’d thought for one second that it is.”  
John blinks.  
“You did what?!”  
Mary shrugs.   
“I told Molly that he loves her. That this is the reason for all the insults and the coldness.”  
She turns her head to face her husband. He looks angry.  
“Trust me, John. I know what I’m doing. And it’s going splendidly. Just look at them.”  
With a smile and a kiss on his cheek she wraps her arms around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. In silence they continue to observe the sunbathing friends for a while, then they leave them be and retreat to the parlour to cherish their time alone.

~oOo~

The constant brushing of her fingers through his hair is a pleasure beyond compare. Never in his life has he felt anything more relaxing. Shiver after shiver do those lovely fingers send across his scalp, otherwise he would have fallen asleep, for sure. Kind-hearted Molly never seems to get bored with the task. The direct sunlight has left his face over ten minutes ago and his skin is cooling, yet he would never have the heart to tell her to stop, never would have the heart to remove his head from her lap. He’s never been this comfortable and at peace with the world since he was a little boy in his mother’s arms.   
“Sherlock?”  
He smiles. His name sounds lovely from her lips.  
“Molly?”  
He hears her smile in her breath.  
“I think we should go back inside. It’s too cold for Rosie.”  
Her fingers seize its movements. It breaks his heart.   
“Just one more time, Molly. Slowly. Please.”  
Tenderly, Molly lets her fingers run through his hair one last time.   
“And a kiss.”  
She giggles.  
“You’re impossible...Rosie?”  
Molly gently wakes the girl and Sherlock finally opens his eyes, kisses Rosie’s forehead when she stirs. Her skin is indeed cold. His protective instincts set in and he wraps his arms closer around her and sits up, leaving Molly’s lap with a heavy heart.   
“Yellowbeard?” Rosie says sleepily and rubs her eyes.   
“Yes, Captain. Time to go ashore and have some refreshments. Are you hungry?”  
Rosie nods and yawns and wraps her arms around her godfather’s neck.  
“Carry me”, she orders and makes both Sherlock and Molly chuckle.   
“Yes, Captain.”  
Sherlock stands up in one, elegant movement, then he holds out his hand to Molly. Her fingers are cold, as well.  
“You’re cold”, he states the obvious.  
“Only a little.”  
She bends down and folds up the blanket. Before she can turn to store it back in the ship, Sherlock takes her hand again and pulls it to his lips. Looking deep into her eyes, he blows hot air from his lungs on her cool fingers, his lips brushing over her delicate skin. Molly holds her breath and gazes up at him with wide eyes and flushing cheeks.   
“Me too, me too!” Rosie sings, ripping the fast building tension between the two adults apart.  
Sherlock doesn’t let Molly’s hand go without two lingering kisses on her fingers and the back of her hand. Then he lets her go. Molly clears her throat and averts her eyes. Sherlock can’t help but grin as he sees her stumble towards the ship. Feeling quite proud of his flirting skills, he takes his goddaughter’s little hand, presses it to his lips and blows hard, causing the sound that never fails to make Rosie squeal with delight.   
“I was just about to call you.” Mary stands by the door, taking her daughter from Sherlock’s arms, giving him a knowing smile before she kisses her daughter’s cheek.   
“How cold you are, darling. A nice cup of tea will warm you pirates right up.”  
“Molly was a sea witch, not a pirate. But she can have tea, too. She saved Yellowbeard’s life with a true love’s kiss.”  
Sherlock freezes.   
How on Earth could he forget that Rosie is a little tell-tale? There is always something he misses. Damn.  
“Has she now?” Mary asks, giving Sherlock an impish smile. “Tell me all about it, Rosie.”  
“I accidently drank poison from the sea witch's goblet, Rosie tried to wake me with a kiss, it didn’t work, so Molly tried and that did the trick. That’s it.”  
“Sherly! I wanted to tell it!”  
“Sorry”, Sherlock says, not sorry at all.   
“You can tell me again tonight when I bring you to bed, all right?” Mary offers and Rosie nods, running off to the parlour where her father is waiting with tea and little sandwiches. Molly is still picking up various toys in the garden, so Mary and Sherlock are alone for another moment. Mary only grins at him, waiting. In the end, Sherlock sighs.   
“Yes, it was a French kiss.”  
“And?”  
“It was wonderful and I never wanted it to end. Happy?”  
“Very. By the way, your hair looks very disheveled”, Mary comments as she walks away. “Maybe you want to slip into the bathroom upstairs and use some of John’s pomade?”  
Sherlock huffs and runs his hands through his hair. Watson’s wife giggles playfully over her shoulder. When she’s left the room, Sherlock looks at Molly. She wandering around the ship now, trying to appear busy. Sherlock wants to go to her and pull her into his arms to kiss her deep and long and forever. Her nervous glance holds him back. She needs space now, he understands. So he leaves for the bathroom to tame his curls.

  
The rest of the day at the Watsons is pleasant and cheerful, though Sherlock gets no more chance to be close to Molly. She always finds a way to avoid him, quickly lifting Rosie onto the seat next to her when he wants to sit there, standing up when the little girl jumps off the sofa, walks away when he attempts to join her conversation with John and so forth. Only at dinner do they sit together, for this is their usual seating arrangement and Molly obviously tries to avoid any attention. But Sherlock is no fool, though her behaviour confuses him greatly. The hour in the garden has only increased his wish to be with her, be close to her. He can’t understand that she doesn’t feel the same and it hurts him to find her gone after he has returned from the lavatory, preventing any chance for him to offer to escort her home. He says his farewell half an hour later, his heart heavy and his mind brooding.  
“Don’t let this discourage you, Sherlock”, Mary says as she sees him to the door.  
“I don’t understand. She was avoiding me for the rest of the day. She kissed me back, you know.”  
“I know. She’s just confused and a little scared, maybe.”  
“About what?”  
“About the fact that the man who has been rude and cold to her for four years is suddenly making an attempt at courtship (already breaking its rules, by the way). If you want my opinion-“ She pauses and takes his arm when he doesn't protest, “you should officially declare your interest to give her some assurance that you are serious about her.”  
“She should know I’m serious. I don’t go galavanting around town like your husband did in his bachelor years. I’ve never done anything like this before, showing and seeking affection.” Even now he can’t help the appalled expression on his face.  
“You flirted with Miss Adler a million times”, Mary protests.  
“She flirted with me. I merely let her.”  
“Well, you probably should stop ‘letting’ her, or Molly will never take your advances seriously.”  
“I already have told her off.”  
“Good. That’s good. Molly was very jealous of Miss Adler.”  
“I know.”  
They smile at each other, Sherlock being a little more hopeful.  
“I plan for a game night on Thursday. I know this is not your favourite thing, but-“  
“I’ll come.”  
“Good. But you should know that I’ve invited Mr. Abbott, too.”  
“Ugh, why?” Sherlock whines, sounding like his goddaughter.  
“Because he is a nice man and Molly loves him.”  
At a pinch in his chest, Sherlock looks down at the gloves in his hands.  
“…Do you think she loves him more than me?”  
“Would I encourage you to go after her if I did? Don’t be stupid.”  
It sounds like a scold, and it makes Sherlock smile. Mary stands on her tiptoes and pecks his cheek.  
“Now, stop pouting, go home and get some sleep. Dream of all the sweet kisses you’ve shared.”  
She grins at him cheekily and he smiles right back, looking more proud than he has after he solved his last case. They say their goodbyes and Sherlock rides home in a carriage, thinking about Molly’s fingers in his hair and her tongue dancing in his mouth.

 


	8. Heaven and hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game night at the Watsons' house doesn't go as planned. There are kisses and warmth and lust...and tears.

Thursday arrived not fast enough, so Sherlock busied himself with a hardly satisfying case of double murder, but he needed something to distract him form the sparkling brown eyes dancing around in his mind. Yet, he has thought of Molly whenever his focus wasn't needed and actually missed her fingers in his hair. It had felt so incredibly nice and he hopes that soon she will do it again, maybe in a more private setting.

Mary greets him with a cheerful smile and a kiss on the cheek.   
"Ready?"   
Sherlock nods, unable to smile. His heart is beating irregular. He can't wait to see her again. Her laughter travels into the hallway and he has to close his eyes for a second, overcome with emotions. He stands at the double doors and immediately his eyes fly to her. She sits on the ground, her green skirt pooling around her, and is sorting the sea shells she has brought from her trip into a beautiful large paint box. It's not new, Sherlock spots some discolorisation and scratches, but Molly has done everything to make it pretty and shine with wood polish. It must be one of her own boxes, Sherlock deduces, given her interest and talent for painting. Since she hasn't observed him yet, Sherlock allows himself to admire her in the white blouse with puffy sleeves and the tight-fitted, grey double-breasted vest with golden buttons. Her outfit is very casual, normally only suited for the own house, which only flatters him. Molly feels comfortable here amongst her friends. They are a family, even if not bonded by blood.   
She takes another sea shell in hand and lowly speaks:   
"Now this one is very dear to me. It was our last day at Seacliff and we had to catch our train, but that beach was so beautiful that I just had to see it one last time before we left. So I snuck out before dawn, leaving a note for Aunt Prudence telling her of my whereabouts and that I would meet them at the station. I ran to the beach and saw the old, eerie castle on the cliff. Its dark walls blackened as the sun rose, the deep orange light glowing behind it. Such a dark, gloomy beauty. I thought of vampires and murders, of tortured women and screeching ghosts. The wind tore at my coat and hair and I could almost feel their invisble claws on me. High waves were shouting their good morning at me, trying to scare me off. But I stayed bravely, and it was so worth it. Soon, the sun rose behind the castle, so silently, steadily, shedding it's deep orange coat, rising and glowing more and more yellow, brightening the day. It was such a dramatic contrast to the choppy sea and the evil castle. I was so mesmerized by it all. I took off my shoes and socks and walked through the water, daydreaming of the silliest things. I completely forgot the time and would have missed the train if not this little fellow had poked into my heel, reminding me of where I was. So I hastened to put socks and shoes back on, grabbed my little twisted friend and ran as fast as the wind to the station, praying and hoping it was not too late."  
Rosie, who hangs by her lips with wide eyes, gasps.  
"Did you catch the train?"  
Molly giggles. "Indeed. All thanks to my little friend. It is called 'Bittium reticulatum', or Needle Whelk."  
She hands the white and coral twisted sea shell over to her goddaughter. She looks at it, holds it so very carefully in her hand that it makes Sherlock smile.   
"Can I call him Peter?"  
Sherlock chuckles. Molly's head darts up and their eyes meet. His heart flutters in his chest.   
"Sherly!"  
Rosie jumps up and carefully manoeuvres around the scattered sea shells before she runs and hops into his arms.   
"Look, look."  
She holds out the Needle Whelk to him.   
"Ah, this must be Peter. Sherlock Holmes, nice to make your acquaintance."  
"He can't talk, dummy", Rosie shakes her head and laughs at him. She is the only person who is allowed to do that.   
He pecks her cheek and sets her down again.   
"I see you're storing away your treasures", Sherlock points out, nodding towards John and Abbott, who are talking by the fireplace.   
"Yes. Molly gave me this box for the shells. Isn't it beautiful?"  
"Very", Sherlock replies and looks directly into Molly's eyes. Her breath gets stuck in her throat and she lowers her gaze. More than pleased with himself, Sherlock sits down on the sofa, close to Molly. She ignores him and attempts to put a sea shell into the box, but Rosie protests.  
"No! First you must tell where you found it."  
"Not all stories are like Peter's, Rosie. Most of them are quite boring, I assure you. Wouldn't you rather play with Mr. Holmes while I put them away for you?"  
It shouldn't, but it sounds nothing but wrong when she calls him by his surname.   
"No. Sherly wants to hear the stories, too."  
It's not a question. Sherlock smirks. When Molly looks up at him for help, he bends down, his face right next to hers, and picks up another sea shell.   
"Where did you find this one, Miss Hooper?"  
Her breath hits his lips and he must fight an overpowering urge to place a hand in her neck and kiss her. A glance at her mouth must do.   
"I...I can't remember."  
He takes a hand from her lap and turns it around, opens her palm with his thumb and places the sea shell inside.   
"Then you better make something up, or our goddaughter will be very disappointed."  
His fingers linger on her hand, and Molly watches them travel down to curl around her wrist for one second. Then he lets her go and leans back, feeling light-headed. Faking an itch, he rubs his fingers on his nose. They smell like jasmine now.   
Patiently and with pleasure he listens to Molly's voice as she tells tale after tale for Rosie's amusement. From the tone of her voice he can recognise which one is true and which one is false. When the last shell is inside the box and Rosie carefully closes the lid, Molly offers to carry it into her room. Sherlock's heart leaps as he watches her leave. His mind is searching for an excuse to follow her when Mary comes to his aid.   
"Sherlock, I hope you don't mind, but I lost my mother's hairpin, you know, the one with the exquisite emerald."  
"Again?", interjects John. Mary throws him a glance only husband and wife - and Sherlock - understand.   
"I've looked everywhere. I'm pretty sure it's in John's study. Would you please have a look around? If your eagle eyes won't find it, I'll fear it is lost forever."  
Bless this woman and her quick wit. He sighs theatrically and slowly rises.   
"What would you do without me, Mary Watson?"  
"Run out of hair pins, most probably", she shoots back. He loves her and tells her so with a smile. With a quick glance to the men he excuses himself and dashes up the stairs, hardly making a sound. His breathing has flattened when he walks up to Rosie's room. The ajar door opens in that moment and Molly gasps when she sees him. Without a word he guides her back into the room only with his eyes and closes the door behind him. Helplessly she stands there, staring at his chest, her hands fidgeting, trying to find words, meaningless banter, to make this situation less intense. But it is. His chest his burning, his fingers tingle, every inch of skin on his body does he feel. It is all aching; aching for her.   
"I-I think we should go back down."  
She tries to go past him, but he snakes a hand around her upper arm and pulls her to him.  
"Don't be cold to me, Molly. Please."  
He cradles the side of her face with his hand - so small in comparison - and gently guides her back against the door, trapping her there.   
"Your eyes have haunted me this past week, I want to look at them."  
She looks up at him and he gladly drowns in the dark seas of her eyes.   
"Countless of times did I think about your fingers in my hair. Your hands are so small. They fit perfectly in mine, it's fascinating."  
He demonstrates it, takes her hand in his, holds it to his chest for a moment, then presses the back of her hand against his lips for a tender kiss with his eyes closed.   
"I can't think of anything else but you", he whispers against her skin and feels her body tremble against his.   
"Please kiss me, Molly. I fear I'll run mad if you don't."  
"Sherlock-"  
He's afraid she will protest, so he steals this kiss from her, seals her lips with his before she can turn him down. Her taste is familiar by now, but still it explodes on his tongue as if it's completely new. Will the thrill never fade? Will her kiss always make him crave for more? Will this primal hunger for her mouth never be satisfied?  
He asks her this last question that shoots through his head, his voice husky, his breath hot and fast, his lips brushing against hers.   
Instead of vocalising a reply she places a hand in his neck and pulls him down, sudden and rough. Their mouths bump together clumsily, but neither of them can see the humor in it now. Sherlock shivers when her fingers curl into his hair, grasp it, and moans into her mouth when she captures it, her lips already parted and her tongue instantly invading his mouth. Cupping her face with both hands he presses her against the door and kisses her back, shuddering from the claiming strokes of her smooth tongue, meeting them eagerly with his own, begging for more. His head is spinning, his knees feel weak and wobbly. Scorching heat travels south his body, gathering in his middle. His senses are flared, all these marvellous sensations clashing down on him. Overwhelmed and breathless he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against hers, trying to regain control. But one look into Molly's burning eyes and the wish for composure is replaced with that raw hunger for her mouth.   
This time, he claims her.   
She clings to him and shivers again and again while his tongue snakes into her mouth and teases, licks and circles hers. What a feeling this is. Exhilarating. Exciting. Intense. Fantastic.   
He will never get enough of this. He will always want more; always more of her taste in his mouth.   
"God, Sherlock."  
Molly breaks the kiss and bumps the back of her head against the door. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she pants heavily. She needs air, he can see that, but he simply can't stop.   
He bends down and presses his open mouth against her throat, right under her jaw. Without hesitation he licks and sucks at the delicate skin, filling his mouth with more and more of her delicious taste. More. More; the only thought in his head. A raspy moan escapes her when he sucks hard.   
"No, Sherlock, no! Stop. You will leave a mark. I'm not wearing a shawl. People will see."  
She pulls at his hair and he let's go, her words echoing through the heavy mist inside his brain, reaching the sensible part.   
Mark.   
Mark.   
God, yes, he wants to mark her. He wants to bruise her skin so she will think of him every time she looks at it.  
"Then where, Molly? Where?"  
He looks into her eyes, his hands caressing her face, desperate for contact. She pants and stares, fighting with herself, then she lets out a breath and hastily unbuttons her blouse and the first four buttons of her double-breasted vest.   
The last bit of common sense leaves him as he watches her shaking fingers undress herself in front of him, revealing more and more, her clavicle bones, so much more pale, smooth skin and at last the swell of her breasts. A jolt rushes through his system; hot, white, pure lust.   
"Here, do it here, Sherlock. My Sherlock."  
She grabs his neck but he's already bending down. With a deep, primal growl he leeches onto that hot, soft mound and licks and sucks with such ferocity it scares him. Once again he is fighting for control - mind over matter - but then Molly moans and all fight is lost. This heavenly sound fills his head and soul; there is nothing more important than to claim her.   
Her arms wind around his shoulders and she gasps loudly when he bites into her flesh and sucks hard.   
Finally, his mouth is full of her taste. His nose is full of her scent. Her warmth is all around him. Heaven, he's in heaven. Or hell. He doesn't know the difference anymore.   
"Oh, God, Sherlock, Sherlock!"  
Suddenly she stiffens in his arms, her breath becomes frantic as she tears at his hair and then she lets out a cry and her body quivers and twitches. Realisation hits him like a brick.   
Jesus Christ!  
The mound of her breast plops out of his mouth soundly and he looks up at her, wants nothing more than to see her face while she dies the little death.  
  
There is nothing as beautiful on this Earth as her, right now. Her divine beauty rolls a wave of tenderness through him and he pulls her tight against him. Kiss after kiss does he rain on her temple, her cheek, the corner of her panting mouth, her jaw, her throat, her cleavage. Last but not least he merely brushes his parted lips over the hot, bright red mark he has left on the right mound of her breast.   
His.   
Peace spreads in his chest. And so much adoration it drives tears into his closed eyes. He wants to hold her, wants to lie down and enfold her in his arms and watch her sleep. One day, he swears himself. One day, he will.  
  
But then, a sob tears his daydream apart. Immediately, he straightens.   
"Molly-"  
She presses her hands against her face and starts crying. The ground beneath him quakes and his blood, so hot a second ago, runs cold. Sherlock doesn't know what to do, the shift too sudden. One second ago he was in heaven, and now he is in hell. Helplessly he steps back and lets go off her, his hands still hovering next to her arms.   
"Talk to me, Molly. Please, for the love of God. Did I hurt you?"  
His eyes dart to the mark. There are bits of blue in it now. All energy drains from him. He has hurt her.   
Dear God.  
Her sobs are like daggers through his heart. Tears fill his eyes and an icy hand grasps his heart.   
"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please."  
Carefully he tries to pull her hands away from her face. One sinks and he immediately lets go. For a second he sees her flushed wet cheeks and the red-rimmed eyes. Once again he begs her forgiveness, her lips quiver and she shakes her head, she tries to say something, but only another sob comes out. Then he hears the doorknob turn and his eyes dart down in panic, but already her other arm pushes him away so she can flee. Frozen to the spot he hears her bolt down the stairs, continuously sobbing, then her heels click over the tiles of the hallway. Abbott's and Mary's voices calling her name, then a door flies open and shut again. The pang of it echoes through the entire house. That's when his knees give in and he sinks onto Rosie's bed. Burying his head in his hands he squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears pour out, anyway, running down his face and dropping onto the red carpet.   
There is so much pain in him, he can't bear it. He wants to scream but there is this lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. His entire body is shaking, a few times he feels like throwing up.   
  
He's hurt her.   
He's hurt her.  
  
Dear God in heaven, he has hurt her.   
  
"Sherlo- oh my God. John, take Rosie."  
The soft voice of Mary Watson is a hundred miles away. He can barely feel her touch when she wraps her arms around him. But this is when the dam breaks and he cries bitterly, Molly's crying face and her sobs driving him into a state, and suddenly he sees those teary brown eyes from when he was on the brink of an overdose and he just wants to tear himself apart.   
  
Eventually, the tears stop. This soul-tearing pain lowers to a simmering dull ache underneath his skin.   
"What happened?" Mary finally asks and offers him the handkerchief she draws out of her sleeve. He takes it and wipes his face and nose. He plays with the delicate, crocheted corners as he gives her a report of the recent events.   
"...I lost control", he concludes and closes his eyes, shame overwhelming him. "God, Mary. I hurt her. I hurt the one person I love most. All hope is lost. She will never forgive me. How could she?"  
Defeated, he lets out a breath and takes Mary's hand. He rarely touches her first, but right now he needs to. Needs to be reassured that he's not the monster he sees in himself. Mary closes her hand around his and cups it with the other.   
"Don't give up, yet. Maybe it was the heat of the moment. If you have lost your head, maybe so has she. It's not every day you experience your first orgasm from a man's hand...um, mouth."  
Sherlock grunts and rubs his eyes with his free hand. Mary apologises. For a while they keep sitting there in silence, and it helps a little, but over all Sherlock would prefer to be alone now. So he leaves, walking through the darkness, the cold night air nipping at his face. His head is completely empty. No idea, no plan to win her back. He's not sure he can.   
He's not sure he deserves to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every good story needs conflict and a bit of angst, at least. But don't worry, this is my feelgood-fic, so there won't be too much of it. Of course there is still hope. Sherlock may not know, but his guardian angel does. She will make things right. ;)


	9. A friendly turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is hating himself. Mary comes to his aid. Molly explains and for probably the first time, Sherlock says all the right things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure it's still Wednesday somewhere...

Almost two weeks of cases and restless nights and Sherlock is used to the dull ache in his heart. He stays away from the Watsons' house, too afraid to run into Miss Hooper. He misses them all terribly, including the source of his pain. So goddamn much. Her smile, her voice, her adorable giggle, her terrible jokes, their banter and their occasional debate about science. For the first time in over four years he's so completely without her, not even her letters to console him, that he is confronted with just how much she is a part of his life, how essential she has become to his well-being and comfort. It just doesn't feel right to not be with her.

Leave it to Mary to fix things. His guardian angel, always there for him. She is standing in front of his door, her husband gone an hour ago after they returned from a solved case and had a drink by the fire. And she is not alone.

  
Sherlock is speechless. To see Molly again is balm for his tortured soul. Finally, he can replace the memory of her crying face with dry, pink cheeks and big, nervous eyes. They stare at each other, Sherlock holding the doorknob, reliving the evening in her arms, the sensuality, the love, the passion, and the hell it plunged them into.   
"This is the point where you invite us in, Sherlock", Mary comes to his aid and he clears his throat, stepping aside and gestures for them to do just so. He can't take his eyes off Molly. She's actually here. She enters his home willingly. She doesn't look afraid. Nervous, but not afraid.   
Is there still hope, after all?  
Mary waits for him to climb the stairs first, then she nods to Molly and follows last. His heart is beating in his throat as he steps into his living room. He doesn't know what to say; what to do. Helplessly he turns around as he hears Molly's footsteps approach. She glances at him nervously, wearing a green velvet dress and jacket, then she looks down and removes her gloves, playing with them nervously. The silence is settling on them heavily when Mary joins them. With a smile at each of them she removes her hat and gloves, which inspires Molly to remove her hat, as well. Mary takes it with the gloves.   
"I'll go ask Mrs Hudson for some tea." An encouraging smile towards Molly and a nod towards Sherlock, then she goes back down, leaving them alone.

Sherlock stares at Molly's feet, his heart drumming against his chest. He can barely breathe. He didn't think he would get a chance to speak to her again, so even though it's difficult, he forces himself to say the thing he wants to say more than anything right now.   
"I'm so sorry, Molly. I never meant to hurt you. I hate myself for losing control like that...for causing you pain..."  
With every word it gets more difficult to speak, the pain and shame clawing at his throat suffocating him. The words die when she slowly crosses the distance between them and his breathing stops altogether when she's right in front of him, looking up at him with those soft, shining brown eyes he adores so much. Her chest is rising and falling quickly, her cheeks are flushed. The slight movement of her head intends that she means to say something, but doesn't. She closes her eyes in frustration and lets out a breath. And then...then she leans against him, shy at first but then closer, closer, winding her arms around him. She presses her head against his chest, her body flush against his.

Sherlock's head is spinning. But he thought-  
  
Overwhelmed, confused and so bloody relieved, he closes his eyes, a lump in his throat. Hesitatingly, he wraps his arms around her, barely using pressure, too afraid he might hurt her again, holding her as he tries to understand what is happening. But Molly doesn't explain. She just holds him and lets him hold her, shares her warmth with him, lets him breathe her scent. A minute passes, maybe more, maybe less, but she doesn't run, only pulls him against her more tightly and he finally understands that their story is not at an end. His heart is yearning for her. That's why he pulls her against him and buries his face in her hair.   
"God, I thought I'd lost you", he breathes into her hazelnut silk and cradles her face as gently as he can.   
"Sherlock..."  
Molly turns her face towards him, but he's still afraid. Shyly he meets her eyes. The tenderness he finds in there lets warmth bloom in his aching chest. Her fingers are curling around his neck now and he lets her pull him to her, his eyes drifting close.   
She kisses him, God she is kissing him again.  
He melts into this kiss, gives himself to her completely, lets her guide the way. There is so much affection in this kiss. It weakens his knees, makes him shiver. He only parts his lips when she does and shyly meets her tongue for a loving stroke. She tastes even better than he remembers, so much sweeter now. Her tongue dives deeper, wakes his desire, but he's so afraid of it. He would rather kill himself than lose control again. So he breaks the kiss, his heart bleeding, and rests his forehead against hers.   
"I will never hurt you again", he solemnly swears against her lips.   
"Oh, Sherlock", she whispers and strokes his hair, "you didn't, you didn't hurt me at all. I'm so sorry I made you think it."  
She presses her face against his, tries to soothe him with a tight hug and tender strokes through his hair, as if she knows exactly what agony he's been through. Then she presses her face against his neck and inhales his scent deeply, causing another shiver down his spine. Her arms around him tighten, and then she finally explains, her voice shaking.   
"It was so wonderful, Sherlock. So very wonderful. Every kiss, every touch, I loved every second, never wanted it to end...But I was overwhelmed, it was all so much and then..." She shakes her head. "I was so embarrassed. I felt stupid and silly and dirty. I just wanted to die right then and there. The tears just burst out of me, I don't know why, but it only embarrasssed me more and I...I just couldn't look you in the eye. I panicked, too afraid you would mock me-"  
He cuts off her words by pressing her against him and pressing an urgent kiss against her throat. Hastily he pulls her back to cup her face and tilt her head to look into her teary eyes.   
"Never. Never, Molly. I was overwhelmed, too. You, in my arms, shuddering-"   
She wants to turn her face away, still horribly embarrassed. She doesn't understand what it had meant to him. He must make her understand.  
"Never in my life have I been happier than in that moment, holding you in your ecstasy. Me being the reason for it...you were so unbelievably beautiful it took my breath away. I was so grateful to be able to see you like this, so lost in pleasure. Pleasure I created-"  
Their mouths clash together, both reliving the passion they had felt, they still feel for each other. Once again Molly gives herself to him, but this time Sherlock makes sure he doesn't lose his head. He never will again, he swears to himself. He swallows her kisses eagerly, though, strokes and dances with her tongue, tries to give as much pleasure as he receives. Heat spreads inside him, fills his entire body and he gladly burns in the fire of his arousal until the heat gathers in his middle. Still afraid, in spite of her explanation, he immediately cups her face and breaks the kiss. They are panting into each other's mouths. Her eyes are big and dark, burning with desire that sends another jolt into his groin. It takes all his willpower, but he gently pushes her away from him. Some distance to clear their heads. Another look into her eyes makes his heart ache. She looks hurt, so he takes her hands in his and presses them to his wet lips to kiss her fingers.   
"Let's not lose our heads again," he breathes.   
She looks at his mouth longingly and he kisses her knuckles. Her eyes flutter close, but she nods and pulls her hands away. Taking a deep breath, she presses them against her cheeks.   
"You're right."  
He smiles at her bravely, even though he feels miserable. To not be in her arms feels wrong. But the fear to inflict pain is stronger than the longing, so he straightens and discreetly wipes some traces of her saliva off his lips using his thumb.   
An awkward silence fills the room, which Molly eventually breaks by inquiring after his latest case. He tells her every little detail to distract himself and her. During his report, Mary comes up with a tray and together they have tea, like they had many times before. When he accompanies the ladies to the door after two hours, he feels more at peace. He even smiles at Molly when they say their goodbyes, his heart full of hope again. He wants to kiss her, but doesn't, of course. Even though Mary knows everything, he doesn't like to show affection in front of her. Also, he has the feeling that Molly wouldn't appreciate it.   
"See you on Saturday? Your goddaughter is very angry with you for being absent for so long. You have some making up to do."  
"I will...Will you be there, Miss Hooper?"  
Even though it earns himself an amused look from Mary, he doesn't try to mask the hopeful sound in his voice.   
"Of course."  
They smile at each other, then he watches Mary and Molly leave.   
As soon as the door closes, his knees weaken and he leans against the wood, pressing his forehead against it.

  
He hasn't hurt her.

She still wants to touch and kiss him.

Thank God.

 


	10. Marry me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party. Abbott. An almost kiss. Sherlock and Molly argue their way into a betrothal lovenerd-style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, I couldn't fool ya, could I? So many of you knew that Tom is still a danger. Well, here you have it. *dun dun dun*  
> ...maybe my note is not that dramatic and cliffhangery given the chapter title and the summary...oh well. ;)

Mary smiles as she notices Sherlock fidgeting with his glass of whiskey, glancing across the ballroom to the door for the hundreth time.  
"You are adorable", she teases him as she leans in.  
"I don't know what you mean."  
She shares her observations with him.  
"Don't worry, she will come. And then you can finally ask her to dance."  
Sherlock's heart jumps in his chest. He's been planning to do this ever since he received the invitation to this evening party. No need to tell Mrs. Watson, though. She keeps grinning up at him, obviously waiting for his eyes to betray him...which they do. A giggle makes him snap them right back.  
"You can't will her to appear, Sherlock, no matter how hard you try."  
He glances back at the open double doors - and there she is. His grin towards Mary couldn't have been more smug. It dies, however, when he sees Molly's mother enter...followed by Mr. Abbott. Why is he still with her?  
"Why is he still here?" It bursts out of him.  
The glass is taken out of his hand.  
"He is her friend, Sherlock. But I advise to waste no time and secure the first dance."  
Sherlock doesn't need more motivation than this. He is standing in front of the three people within a blink of his eye. Fighting down the urge to just take her hand and lead her away from Abbott, he greets them all politely, bowing to Molly's mother first.  
"Mrs. Hooper, Miss Hooper...Mr. Abbott."  
He inclines his head to his competitor, then he focuses on Molly.  
"Miss Hooper, would you like to dance?"  
"We just arrived, Mr. Holmes", Mrs. Hooper interjects. She never liked him. Not that Sherlock could blame her. He decides not to reply and keeps looking at the object of his admiration.  
"Um, I'm sorry, sir, but I'm already engaged for the first two dances."  
Mr. Abbott steps up next to her and holds out his arm, smiling at Molly most charmingly; then at him.  
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes."  
Sherlock balls his hands into fists. Somehow that face, which looks way too much like his, really makes him want to punch it. But he steps aside, exchanging a look with a blushing Molly. She walks to the dance floor on Abbott's arm and starts dancing with her suitor. Flawlessly. Smiling, cheeks aglow. There is a pang in his heart, because neither smile or glow are for him. His so enraptured by Molly's beauty that he misses her mother stepping next to him.  
"It is time to stop this charade, Mr. Holmes."  
He glances down at her. She has the same big brown eyes as her daughter; the same strength in them.  
"I beg your pardon?"  
She turns to him fully now.  
"You will not ruin my daughter for your own, selfish amusement, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Abbott truly cares for her. And he is an honorable gentleman...which is more than can be said for you."  
An outrageous insult, no doubt; one which has crossed Sherlock's mind more than once these past weeks.  
"If you truly care for her, then you should act in _her_ best interest, not your own."  
Sherlock bites his tongue. He is smart enough not to start a discussion with Mrs. Hooper. As he remains silent, her mother huffs (so similar to her daughter) and leaves him. There is a dark cloud in his head now, thundering with Mrs. Hooper's words. Suddenly watching Molly smile at Abbott becomes unbearable and he averts his eyes. He rejoins the Watsons for conversation with some of their friends, deliberately turning his back to the dance floor. Half an hour passes, then there is a tingling sensation in the back of his neck. He turns around, eyes scanning the dance floor - Molly is gone. An uncomfortable weight settles in his stomach. On their own account his feet start moving, searching the rooms for her. The longer it takes, this feeling of urgency to find her intensifies. The fifth room he steps in, the music room, is the one where she is in.  
  
She is not alone.  
  
Sherlock stops dead. His heart stops beating, too. Abbott is just curling his hands around her upper arms and pulls her close. He is bending down to her, the intention clear. And she...she is not pushing him away.  
His heart screams her name.  
"Molly!"  
Their heads snap around to him. Abbott hastily releases her. But Sherlock only has eyes for her. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, his heart clenching painfully and he can barely breathe.  
He doesn't understand.  
  
There is an eternity passing where he stares at her, she being an ocean away, before Abbott clears his throat, mumbles something Sherlock doesn't hear, and walks through the other door, leaving them alone. Finally, Sherlock crosses the distance between them until he stands in front of her. There are a hundred questions rushing through his head, all of them frightening him. He can't form them into words, but he searches her eyes for answers until Molly averts her gaze and folds her hands in front of her.  
"Sherlock, please understand-"  
"What? What shall I understand? That you rather kiss two than merely one?"  
Molly lowers her head.  
"Tom and I are old friends-"  
"So because he kissed you first he has the right to kiss you whenever he pleases?"  
"It's not that simple, Sherlock."  
"Then explain it to me."  
He reaches out for her, but she bends away from him. A sharp pang in his heart. It must have shown in his eyes, because for a moment her eyes widen. Then she lets out a breath and takes a step away from him.  
"We have to stop this, Sherlock."  
"Stop what?"  
Another deep breath and a long pause, Molly staring at her hands.  
"Tom is a good man."  
It's like she's pushing a dagger into his chest.  
"He's a dull fish. And not half as clever as you are."  
"Not every woman prefers a man too clever for his own good, with a reckless spirit and a dangerous profession."  
"But you do!"  
Her eyes are wide and for a second he thinks he can see the longing he feels so strongly now, but then she shakes her head.  
"I have to be realistic, Sherlock. I'm 26. You know as well as I do that he is most probably my last chance...and I really like him. He's my best friend."  
"Then what am I?"  
Sherlock can't hide the pain in his voice. He knows she cares for him. Every kiss has been full of love...hasn't it? He's not an expert. But he's sure...was sure. Now she's filling his heart with doubt and this is a feeling he definitely doesn't care for.  
There is another pause, heavy and thick. They both try to collect themselves. It's her who speaks first:  
"Sherlock, you know I care for you. And I know you care for me, too. But...", her voice starts shaking, "we both know that it won't last."  
Another dagger through his heart, nice and slow, every inch sending another jolt of pain through his entire body. A lump forms in his throat and he tries to swallow it down, failing.  
"I know this is new and exciting for you, but you have to admit that all experiments bore you sooner or later. And I can't throw my future away to wait for it to happen. As much as I...enjoy to participate, I have to think of myself. And being your mistress...as tempting as it is...it will ruin any chance of a family of my own."  
Sherlock cannot believe what she just said.  
"Do you really think that this is all it is? An experiment?"  
She inhales soundly, straightens and looks into his eyes.  
"Yes", she says, her voice strong, but her eyes wet.  
"If you really think so, then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."  
It hurts that she thinks so little of him, that she thinks he would ever use her for this sort of experimentation. He doesn't deserve this, not after all the intimacy they shared. He has shown her more of his heart than he has shown any other person in this world ever, has allowed himself to be vulnerable. He has given her his heart with every kiss, every touch and every look.  
...And she thinks it is merely a fancy of him.  
Sherlock half-turns away from her, clasping his hands behind his back, fighting for composure.  
"You think love a chemical defect, Sherlock. You've never courted...You don't even like me, not really."  
At that he turns his head and he gives her a look of utter disbelief.  
"After everything we shared...how dare you say this to me?" His voice is low and beaten. "You are right, I do think of love as a weakness. Love makes you vulnerable. Three months ago your words wouldn't have wounded me. I would have brushed them off and moved on from you, unaware of this...bloody tenderness I feel in my heart whenever I look at you now. I wouldn't know what longing feels like, I wouldn't know this physical pain when you are separated from the one that is most important to you. Three months ago, given the choice, I wouldn't have chosen this path. I would have prefered to stay a fool - and would have missed out on the brilliance of holding you in my arms, feeling your warmth enfolding me, making me feel safer and more content than ever before. I would have missed what it feels like to be home...Now I know this must sound even more foolish to you, but it is the only word that can even begin to describe what I feel when I'm in your arms, being kissed by you. During these past weeks I have come to understand that you are my home, my safe haven, where I feel at peace, where my bustling mind comes to rest. This is the result of my experiment...And I'm sorry to hear that you didn't achieve the same."  
His vision blurrs and he turns his head away to shut his eyes and fight these bloody tears down. All these emotions raging inside him...who would have thought he would ever experience what heartbreak feels like? Certainly not him.  
"Sherlock, I..."  
Out of the corners of his eyes he sees her cup the sides of her face and shake her head.  
"All this time I tried to convince myself that it was merely a dream, the most wonderful dream...I tried so hard not to hope...four years, Sherlock. We've known each other for so long and you never felt this way for me. It can't be real. Think about it. It's just the physical intimacy. It has to be."  
"I have thought about it. Mary was right. I've always felt for you. The day we met I knew you could get me in trouble. I was attracted to you from the first moment. Your damned doe eyes, your poor social skills...I knew I had to push you far away from me. So I did. And still, I enjoyed meeting you again and again. Bickering with you became one of my favourite things to do, especially after you learned to fight back. You became a part of my self-made family without me even realising it. But I was glad; am glad. You impressed me; your kindness and patience. You endured my foul moods, my harsh words with nothing but grace. Your gentle heart made me more grateful for the people in my life. You...humanized me without even trying."  
He gives her a little smile, those four years passing behind his eyes, all these precious little moments unforgotten; as well as this first moment where he got just a hint of how much Miss Hooper meant to him.  
"Yet, I am a very flawed man, doing stupid things, being careless and selfish when the storm inside my head becomes too much. I will never forget the look on your face that night...when you and the Watsons found me at the opium den..."  
Molly closes her eyes in pain and presses her hands against her belly, remembering this night as vividly as he does. When she re-opens them, a tear rolls down her cheek.  
"We nearly lost you."  
His eyes tear up, but he doesn't try to hide it. For three years he wanted to thank her, and now the moment has finally come.  
"I know. I could feel I was slipping...but then I felt your hand. You held on so tight, pressed my hand against your chest...I felt your heartbeat, so strong and fast...I saw your eyes, begging me to stay...me...and I couldn't let go. I wanted to stay...just to bicker with you one more time, to see that angry spark light up your big brown eyes."  
She lets out a laugh and a sob at the same time, another tear falling.  
"That's what I wanted, too...and I wanted to slap you real hard."  
He chuckles and they smile briefly, then Molly presses her lips together.  
"I never let go of your hand once that night", she whispers.  
"I know...and I'm so glad you didn't."  
Another sob breaks out of her and she tries to stifle it by pressing her hand against her mouth. Molly is seriously crying now. As is he. This night has traumatized them both. It looks like her legs are about to give in, so he crosses the distance between them and pulls her into a tight embrace, unsure if his touch is welcome. But when she slings her arms around his back, he closes his eyes and cradles her face. Molly curls her fingers around his big hand and presses an urgent kiss to it. For a while, there are only her low sobs filling the room.  
"That night...I prayed for the first time since my father died..."  
Sherlock's bottom lip quivers. He knows what this confession means. Molly has been religious and her father's death had destroyed her faith in God. That his near-death would make her call out to Him...  
"I was so afraid, so very afraid..."  
She looks up at him, her eyes reflecting the fear she had felt, and he wishes nothing more than to take this pain away from her, to make her forget it. Heck, he wishes he could turn back time and erase that night entirely.  
"That's when I realised I love you. I love you so much and I couldn't do anything to help. I could only sit and watch and pray...never in my life have I suffered more than in this horrible night. I swore myself that if you survived, I would tell you how I felt...But I never did. I was too scared you would laugh at me, break my heart a second time..."  
"Molly", he pants, his own emotions overwhelming him. He searches her lips and kisses her hard, his arms tightly wrapped around her. His chest is burning with shame, guilt and gratitude and while he kisses the woman he loves, he sends his own silent prayer heavenward, thanking a God he doesn't believe in for his life.  
With wet cheeks and wet lips they kiss each other long and deep, like they should have three bloody years ago, when they both had realised just how much they felt for each other.  
When they part for air, Molly keeps his face close with a hand in his neck.  
"Never again, Sherlock", she whispers urgently against his lips, "swear it."  
"I swear", he replies without hesitation and lowers his head to seal his promise with a tender kiss. And then he holds her, their lips finding each other over and over again for small, loving kisses, until the tears on their cheeks have dried and the majority of this particular wound in their hearts is healed with the love and tenderness they shower each other in.  
Letting out a breath, Sherlock rests his forehead against hers and lets his fingertips wander over her warm cheek.  
He loves her so very much. He wants to hold and kiss her for the rest of his life.  
"Marry me, Molly."  
She stiffens in his arms for a moment, then she takes his hand, pressing another kiss to it.  
"You don't want to be married, Sherlock."  
Sherlock lets out a frustrated sigh. Molly slips out of his arms.  
"Could you please stop telling me what I do and do not want?"  
"I'm just trying to think logical, keep a clear head in the heat of the moment...like you normally do."  
"I am being logical."  
"No, you're being emotional."  
He huffs at this insult and she can't help but giggle at his appalled expression.  
"Marriage is the logical solution", he insists, trying to give his voice its typical cold tone back, "I want to be with you, you want to be with me. The society we live in dictates marriage to make this wish acceptable. This way your social status is protected, improved even. What is not logical about this?"  
"Marriage is not just wearing golden rings, Sherlock. There are a lot of practical things to take into consideration. There should be a mutual understanding of what this marriage should be."  
"What do you mean?"  
She rounds the sofa and starts playing with a lose thread of one of the cushions.  
"Practical things...every day life...the future...a marriage means a lifetime, Sherlock."  
"Unless one asks for a divorce."  
It has been meant as a joke to ease the tension in the air. Sometimes, he really is an idiot. Her face tells him so.  
"Sorry", he says sheepishly.  
"I want a lifetime, Sherlock. 'Til death do us part."  
"I want that, too. Seriously", he adds when he sees her doubtful look.  
"It's not just that."  
"Then what else?"  
"W-where would we live?"  
"What do have against Baker Street?"  
"Nothing...it's just small."  
"No, it's not. There's Watson's room."  
Her eyes widen.  
"You...you don't want..." her cheeks blush. Sherlock is confused, "you don't want to share a bed?"  
Oh.  
Sherlock clears his throat.  
"No, I...yes, I want to share a bed...very much so..."  
He clears his throat again and they stare at their hands foolishly for a moment.  
"I just meant it's a spare room, where I...we can conduct our experiments. I assume you wouldn't like it in the study. I reckon there will be...feminine touches you might want to add to the rooms."  
She snorts out a laugh at this.  
"Yes...feminine touches..." She grins at him and he rolls his eyes. "I need space for my books."  
"Whatever doesn't fit in the study we can store in Watson's room...or the bedroom."  
Once again he tries very hard not to blush.  
"Speaking of the bedroom..."  
She doesn't continue and he fears she wants to discuss...details in that area, too. The temperature in the room seems to rise by the second.  
"I'm 26, Sherlock", she finally blurts out.  
"So you keep saying", he replies, not seeing a connection between her age and marital intercourse. She gnaws at her bottom lip. This and all this talk about bedrooms and shared beds is starting to have an effect on him.  
"I want a family."  
"So do I."  
Her eyes widen. It pleases him that she's surprised, even though she shouldn't be.  
"Really?"  
"Of course."  
"I don't think it is that obvious."  
"How could it not be? We've been godparents to the same child for the last three years. You pointed out only weeks ago that she has me wrapped around her finger. Why does it come as a surprise that I want one of my own? If John and Mary can create such perfection, imagine what we can create."  
"It's not a contest, Sherlock", she scolds him softly, but her cheeks are a glowing pink and her eyes are soft and warm.  
"I didn't mean it like that."  
She smiles and he feels even warmer. Again, she bites her lip. He starts to think she is doing this on purpose.  
"Well, given my age...we would have to start trying immediately."  
He blinks, countless of inappropriate images filling his head, the memory of a climaxing Molly sending a shiver down his spine.  
"Ready whenever you are."  
Her mouth falls open. Sherlock silently praises himself. He looks at her and she looks back, her eyes sparkling with mischief and desire and Sherlock is hella glad that there is a sofa between them.  
"How many would you like? I'd like a big family...two, or three."  
"I'm happy to give you as many children as you wish."  
Jesus, he has to stop saying these things or soon they will be on this sodding sofa, starting a family right here and now.  
"Cocky bastard", Molly mumbles and he grins cheekily.  
The air between them is laden with electricity and the desire for the petite woman is flowing hotly through his veins. In a few hours he will be glad for the thought that pops into Molly's head right now, even though it is like a bucket of ice water thrown into his face in this moment.  
"But, Sherlock, if we have children...what about your work?"  
"...You want me to stop working?"  
It is a part of him. He loves being a consulting detective.  
"No! No, I'd never ask you to give up doing what you love. It's just...I wanted to suggest to buy a little house, away from Baker Street, to keep your personal and professional life separated...and the children safe."  
For a moment there is a pang of fear in his heart, for these imaginary children, and for her. Losing her is not an option. He would give up his work before endangering her.  
"I agree. But I promise I will take less dangerous cases once we're married."  
"No, no, I wouldn't want to be in the way of you and a good puzzle."  
He frowns.  
"Molly, no matter how intriguing a puzzle may be, the safety of my wife will always be me first concern."  
Again, she blushes, her eyes tearing up. Molly looks down and nods.  
"Did I say something wrong?"  
She shakes her head and looks up again, a smile so tender adorning her face his heart flutters in his chest.  
"I love you."  
The ground beneath him shakes and his legs feel wobbly all of a sudden. Then a happiness grips his heart and he can barely contain himself.  
"I love you, too."  
Three months ago he thought he would never say these words. Now they simply fall from his lips, feeling so natural on his tongue.  
"Will you marry me, Molly Hooper?"  
Her eyes fall close and she grips the back of the sofa. When her eyes open, tears fall from her lashes.  
"If you insist."

  
They smile and hurry into each other's arms, not wanting to spend another second apart.  
"God, why didn't I kiss you years ago?" Molly mumbles into his chest. "Had I known this was all it took to get your head out of your arse..."  
He chuckles. He loves it when she swears.  
"I suggest we put all the blame on Mary, for she came up with the scheme in the first place."  
"Works for me", Molly replies and looks up at him, her eyes shining like the evening star.  
Her hand curls into the lapel his suit jacket and when she pulls, he more than gladly lowers his head to receive her kiss.  
Sherlock is happy. So happy. Molly will be his, they will spend the rest of their lives together.  
  
After a long time, but never long enough, they part.  
"I will speak to Tom", Molly whispers, her fingers playing with the hair in the nape of his neck.  
"Do you want me to come with you?"  
"No, thank you."  
He nods and ignores the insecurity fluttering in his chest. Molly has agreed to marry him. She loves him, not Abbott. She is his. He presses a loving kiss to her warm lips.  
"Then I'll speak to your mother."  
"I will definitely come with you for that."  
Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh which makes her giggle.  
"I'll protect you, I promise."  
With a chuckle he pulls her close for one last kiss, then he lets her go, her hand sliding down his arm as she retreats, taking his and holding it as long as possible. She looks so incredibly happy. It makes him happy, too. So very happy.  
"Find me in the ballroom?"  
Molly nods and exits the room to look for Tom.

 


	11. Facing the beasts with my shieldmaid by my side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks for Mrs. Hooper's consent to marry her daughter. Bruised skin follows.

Sherlock hurries back to the ballroom, his body bursting with energy. As he approaches Mary and John, she spots him first - and clasps her hand over her mouth before he even reaches her. With a happy squeal - which is droned out by the music, luckily - she rushes towards him and pulls him in for a tight hug, all propriety forgotten.   
"Oh my God, I can't believe it!" she shouts into his ear and he chuckles as he hugs her back.   
"You will be so disgustingly happy!"  
"I know", he can't help but reply and his eyes sparkle when she cups his face for a second.   
"John!"  
Before he even gets a chance, Mary tells her husband that Sherlock is engaged. The look on John's face - that alone makes up for all the heart ache. Instead of congratulations, Sherlock receives a lecture on marriage right here and now, but he endures it bravely, knowing it is coming from a place of love. After ten minutes, Mary places a hand on John's lower arm. It's all it takes to silence him. The doctor lets out a breath.   
"Come here, you idiot."  
He hugs him with one arm and pats his shoulder. Sherlock beams down at him when he spots Molly at the entrance.   
"Excuse me."   
He rushes to her.  
"Are you all right?" he immediately asks and takes her hand in his. He is allowed to do this now, for all the world to see.   
"Yes." She smiles, but says nothing more on how Abbott took it. "Mother is in the dining room."  
Sherlock nods and offers Molly his arm. Steeling himself for what is to come, he leads her into the dining room, where Mrs. Hooper is holding a glass of red wine and is chatting with another woman. Leaving Sherlock by the door, Molly goes to her. Her mother looks her up and down, then she glances over her shoulder at Sherlock. Her eyes widen and her expression hardens. Oh boy.   
Nevertheless, Mrs. Hooper follows her daughter into the music room, which is still unoccupied. Sherlock has followed three steps behind, but now he joins them. He has intended to officially ask her for her daughter's hand, but Molly destroys his plan by interlacing her fingers with his. One look at their joined hands and Mrs. Hooper's lips are pressed into a thin line.   
"Please, mother. I love him." Molly's voice is soft and pleading, but her mother has only eyes for Sherlock. They are full of accusations, their talk from an hour ago droning in his ears.  
"I am being selfish, Mrs. Hooper", he says with his heart beating in his throat, "but my motivation is love, not temporary amusement."  
Molly looks at him, confused.   
"You will get bored and you will break her heart."  
He tightens his grip around Molly's hand.  
"It will be my pleasure to prove you wrong every single day."  
The fire in her dark eyes is frightening, he has to admit.   
"You're a drug addict. What kind of mother places her only child in such hands?"  
The air is knocked out of him.   
"Enough, mother. Sherlock hasn't used in three years. I have forgiven him, and so should you. Or is that cross around your neck just for decoration?"  
Sherlock gulps at the icy chill in the air between the women.   
"Molly", he says softly and her jaw clenches, but then she looks up at him apologetically and squeezes his hand.   
"I'm sorry", she says to both of them.   
There is a pause and he doesn't know why, but he can feel a breach form between mother and daughter. And he doesn't want this. He knows Molly loves her mother dearly, and vice versa. Why else would Mrs. Hooper react like this? She simply wants to protect her only child from a man she mostly knows from the papers and by what Molly has told him, back when he was nothing but terrible to her. So he gathers his strength with a deep breath, and lays his heart bare in front of Mrs. Cecilia Hooper.   
"I will not marry your daughter without your consent, Mrs. Hooper."  
Molly gasps at that and Sherlock can feel the tremble in her hand.   
"But I will beg for it if I have to. If it takes a month, if it takes a year, I will show up on your doorstep every single day from now on until I get your consent - and I will. I will prove to you that my heart is true. I adore your daughter, have always adored her. I pushed her away because, like you, I thought I wasn't worthy. But she chose me, God knows why, but she did. And I will go through hell to have her by my side, as my wife. She is what I want. Every day. For the rest of my life. I'm sure of it. I wouldn't have proposed if I wasn't. Molly is my friend, my heart, and I will never do anything to hurt her ever again. This I swear to you both."  
Mrs. Hooper stares right into his soul, weighing these words that have come right from his heart, searching their truth.  
"Mama..."  
Her eyes dart to Molly now, and then their joined hands; then back to Sherlock.  
"One year of official courtship. If you stay true to her, I will give you my blessing."  
Sherlock and Molly exchange a look. One year! One year where he is forbidden to take her hand in public, to be alone with her, to kiss her, to hold her. He can't imagine it. Not since he knows she loves him, too. How will he go about his day constantly feeling the absence of her warm hand in his?   
But he will do it. He will do everything, just as he has so sternly declared. All for his Molly.   
Sherlock smiles down at her and squeezes her hand, but Molly doesn't return it. Her free hand curls around his biceps and it feels as if she wants to hold on to him forever. Sherlock is truly blessed.   
"Mother, one year is a long time."  
"So you do have doubts."   
That triumphant sound in Mrs. Hooper's voice is like a punch in the gut.   
"No. I don't doubt him in the least. It's just..." and here she blushes, "as you so often point out, I don't have much time left...and we want to start a family right away..."  
Sherlock's eyes widen in horror. Molly did not just say that, did she?! Now he feels heat rise in his cheeks. It's exciting to discuss children with his bride, but not with the bride's mother. That's just wrong.   
To his surprise, Mrs. Hooper looks at him again, but not with anger or disgust, but with surprise. Those brown eyes look a bit softer now.   
"Oh."  
It's that small sound that conveys so much feeling. Mrs. Hooper longs for grandchildren, he realises. If for sentimental reasons or to ensure that her blood line continues, he will find out eventually.   
"Well, then. I agree to the marriage, but I do insist on a six month engagement. Anything less would seem desperate or would stir rumors. I will announce it in Monday's paper."  
Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hooper takes her leave. And with that, the greatest obstacle has been overcome. It feels so easy now, though Sherlock's heart has beaten frantically the entire time. Tension is leaving his body and for a moment he feels tired. But then his beautiful bride laughs and hugs him tight, and all wearyness is forgotten.   
"Six months, Sherlock. Six months and you'll be mine. I can't believe it. I'm so incredibly happy. Oh, Sherlock, my Sherlock!"  
Her hands cup his face and his heart leaps at the joy he sees in her eyes. It fills his chest with heat and giddiness and a laugh bursts out of him when he pulls the petite woman against him, covering her neck and shoulder in kisses.   
"Thank God it's not a year. I couldn't have made a year of boring courtship. I would have stolen you from your mother's house and gone to Gretna Green, propriety be damned."  
She laughs, not from his words alone, but from the tickling lips against her throat.  
"If we were pirates, I would elope with you right now."  
Ever so fond memories of that day in the Watsons' garden fill his head and he closes his eyes, reliving them, smiling against Molly's warm skin. It's so soft here, right above her pulse point. He presses his lips against it, feels the fast, strong pulse.   
"Let's run away and become pirates, Molly. Right now."  
She giggles and strokes through the hair in the base of his neck.   
"In another life, Sherlock."  
"Promise."  
"I promise."  
Their lips find each other and melt together for a kiss that is pure love and happiness. It seals their promise of another life; any life. Together. Always.  
  
"I love you", Molly whispers against his lips and her hands cup his face, tilting his head to the other side. She kisses him again, her tongue diving deep into his mouth, teasing his tongue in a way that weakens his knees. The kiss is heat and longing now, and both fill his head, making him dizzy. Heaven and hell; Molly can make him feel both with just one kiss.   
Blood is filling his groin, filling it with desire for his bride, his Molly. He wants her so god damn much, all of her, forever. He wants to tear off her clothes and press her bare flesh against his, feel her and nothing but her underneath him, wrapped around him, arching her body against his; he wants to see the rapture of their love on her face again. There is nothing he wants more now. If he would beg, would she take off her dress for him? Would she lie down on the sofa and welcome him between her legs?   
A violent shudder runs through him as he imagines himself making love to her right here, right now, in a strange house, in a room with ajar doors, countless of voices and music right outside. It's exciting for a second, the thought of taking her in such an exposed scenery, but then this excitement goes stale and bitter.   
What is he thinking?! This is madness. It could destroy everything. He would never risk Molly's reputation, nor would he risk their future together.   
...If only she would stop kissing him so very seductively he could gather the strength to break this sensual kiss.   
How he manages in the end is beyond him. But he does, and he's proud of himself, even if Molly's pulling fingers weaken his resolve.   
"Darling, if you don't stop kissing me like this, I'll run mad."  
His voice is rough, a desperate thunder. Molly shivers and pulls at him again, her eyelids heavy.   
"God, Molly."  
He grabs her, unable not to, and devours her mouth with a moan. All those times he has told himself she was plain and dull rush through his head, and once again he laughs at himself for being so foolishly blind. His Molly is not plain at all. She is a nymph, a mermaid, a sea witch, luring him into the deep waters with only her eyes and her sweet, sweet kiss. And he will gladly jump into his doom, as long as her arms are tightly wound around him as he sinks into the darkness.   
Their bodies are so tightly pressed together that he doesn't know if it is her or his own heartbeat he feels pounding against his chest. The heat of her breasts seeps through his waistcoat and scorches his skin. He is burning, he can't breathe, his head is spinning. It really feels like drowning, and it reaches a point where he has to choose between breaking the kiss or faint.   
So he cups her chin and pulls her away from him just enough so his mouth is free to inhale oxygen. Molly is just as breathless, swaying, clinging to him. She stares at his mouth, confused to why it is not one hers, then looks up at him. The expression in her eyes pierces his very soul. It's the same expression from that second night in Rosie's room.   
Someone help him. Someone extinguish this flaring desire inside his body. For he cannot. He should never have kissed her a second time, but all regret is too late now. The woman he loves is in his arms, longing for him, demanding him. He can see the need in her eyes; she is past the point of no return. And so is he.   
  
"I want to leave my mark on you", he growls wolfishly and pulls her by the hand across the room, to the window seat. He pushes her down on it, drawing the heavy, red satin curtain close. As he puts one knee on the bench between her thighs she is hastily pushing down her short, laced sleeves until so much pale skin is exposed that it blinds him. Her lovely mounds are revealed to his hungry eyes and he hastily bends down to press his open mouth onto one of them.   
"Oh God", Sherlock hears her pant and moans when she arches her back, pushing more of her hot breast into his mouth. With a growl he nips and sucks at her smooth skin, feels it heat up even more. He swipes his tongue over his bite posessively, claiming her, filling his mouth with her taste. Molly gasps and shudders underneath him. She throws one arm across his shoulders and buries one hand in his pomaded hair, gripping his smoothed out curls. She tears at him, tries to pull him closer, but he knows if he rests his full weight on her, he will lose the rest of his control. And he has made a vow.   
So he kisses her instead, greedily, then whispers darkly against her wet lips:   
"Soon, you will sing for me, my sea witch, but this time, you need to be silent. Put your hand over your mouth, deny me your music or I will lose all sense and make you mine right here."  
With a longing moan she closes her eyes and does as she is told. Instantly, Sherlock's mouth claims her breast once more, the skin already red from his previous ministrations. It merely takes seconds of biting and sucking to send her to heaven. Her squeal is stifled by her hand, but it sends shivers down his spine nonetheless, as does her quivering body. Kiss after kiss does he rain on every inch of her exposed chest until she lays still, and even then he can't stop to taste her. She is so overwhelmingly beautiful in her lust.   
How will he ever be able to let her leave his bed once she's in it?   
Even though his own lust is tearing at him, he is satisfied and happy. Her pleasure is enough for him; so much more important than his own.   
  
So when she sobs, the sound tears his soul apart. Past horrors and fears grip his heart and in panic his head snaps up.   
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry", does she sob when she sees his frightened expression through the curtain of tears. "I don't know why...I'm so happy...I love you so much..."  
Relief washes over him and he sits down and gathers her up in his arms. She presses herself against him, fighting down the tears. Every sob pains him; he pulls her closer and takes her hand to place soothing kisses on her knuckles.   
When she finally calms down - after one painful eternity - he bends down to kiss the remaining tear drops off her flushed cheeks. Hee takes the handkerchief out of his pocket and gently wipes the wet lines away. Only after that is he brave enough to look into her eyes. There is a warm glow in them now.   
"You scared the hell out of me", does he confess as he blindly pushes his handkerchief back into his pocket.   
"I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened this time. I wasn't embarrassed. Just overwhelmed. What you make me feel...it's beyond anything I have ever felt. I felt so much...too much for my body to contain. It just burst out of me...I know it sounds stupid-"  
He silences her with a sweet kiss.  
"I'm just glad it wasn't pain."  
She cradles the side of his face. "Not at all. Only ecstasy. Pure, heavenly ecstasy...Thank you."  
Her thumb brushes over his cheekbone. Such a simple gesture, but so wonderfully calming. His eyes flutter close and she does it again; and again. When he opens them, the fear to have hurt her is buried deep within him. His eyes fall on her chest and a tremble vibrates through his entire body when he sees the angry red love bite, a stark controast to her pale skin. Before he can stop himself he reaches out; there is such a primal need to touch his mark. Molly gasps and flinches as his fingertips follow the oval outlines. She follows his gaze and for a moment she watches his fingers trace the red on her mound.   
"I'm proud to be a civilized man, a man of logic. I bruised your skin; ruptured capillaries, blood trapped under your skin...It shouldn't feel so good to see this mark I left on your body. It shouldn't be...so satisfying, so reasurring."  
  
Carefully he lays his fingertips on the bruised skin; it's so hot. With the desire to ease the pain she must feel, he bends down and tenderly blows some air on his mark.   
His mark...  
Another pleasant shiver. Underneath all the clothes and logic lies a mere beast, after all. A primate, driven by instinct to claim his mate.   
The civilized man tenderly kisses the bruise.   
Then he lets his lips slide upwards with closed eyes, breathing in her delicious scent. There is a whiff of something that has nothing to do with perfume; it's pheromones, released from her body to entice him, to make him claim her. This smell makes his mouth water and his head dizzy.  
"And I shouldn't want to bruise you even more", he rumbles into her ear, his lips brushing over her earlobe, "I shouldn't want to cover your entire body with these primal markings."  
"God, Sherlock. Let's go to Gretna Green. Right now."  
Her desperate tone makes him chuckle. He looks down at her, the back of his hand stroking her cheek.  
"No, my darling. We'll wait. I need time to learn how to deal with this hunger for you."  
Molly's eyes fill with tears again and she smiles.   
"What?"   
She shakes her head and curls her fingers around his wrist.   
"I still can't believe you want me. To hear you say these things...it feels too good to be true. What if I'm just dreaming and in a minute I wake up, alone in my bed, back in a world where you are annoyed by my mere presence?"  
He wants to protest that it has never been like that, but he doesn't think she would believe him.  
"Then don't wake up. Keep me here with you, trapped in this glorious dream for the rest of our lives."  
They rest their foreheads together and close their eyes, praying that this dream will never end.

  
  


Somewhere behind the curtain, there is commotion. Piano music starts playing. Reluctantly, Sherlock and Molly return to reality. Before either of them open their eyes, their lips find each other for one last, sweet kiss.   
"Now we're in a pickle", Molly whispers, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "How will we get out of here without them knowing what we've been doing?"  
"Well, we are engaged. I believe it is allowed to spend some time alone, unchaperoned."  
"But it's not official, yet. I don't want to upset mother."  
He sighs and rolls his eyes when the group of people by the piano starts singing, as well.  
"Fine, then I sneak out first while you rearrange your clothes."  
"Aye, Captain."  
He grins at that, pecks her lips one last time and then glances around the curtain. There are more people entering the room now, drawn in by the music. A great opportunity. He instructs her to slip out on the wall side of the curtain and mingle with the crowd. He goes first, stealthy and elegant, and anxiously waits for several minutes until Molly stands next to him.   
"A wonderful song", she says to no one in particular and Sherlock is amused at this attempt at 'normal social behaviour'.   
"Would you care to dance, Miss Hooper?" he asks her loud and clear and she beams at him.

Finally, after four long years of secret adoration, Sherlock and Molly dance their first of many dances. He only lets her go when the angry glare from his mother burns two holes into his back. And he only lets John and Abbott (it surprises Sherlock that he's still here, still smiling at Molly) dance with her once before he reclaims her for two more dances. Dancing with her is as exhilarating as making love to her. He never wants this night to end.

 


	12. Brotherly Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes' Clan visit Baker Steret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we arrived. If you made it this far, welcome to the last chapter of Part I of my Victorian AU. On Wednesday, Part II of the series will begin: "Being engaged to Molly Hooper". The rating will be mature. ;)

Sherlock continues to waltz Molly in his dreams. His slumber is deep and peaceful; he's never slept so well. That is, until he senses a presence. Someone in the real world is watching him, dragging him away from the dance floor of his dreams, out of his woman's arms, away from the warmth of her eyes and into the cold of reality. The transition is difficult, he so wants to stay, but slowly the light of day slips past his lids, blinding him. He blinks and turns his head away. He wakes up; how disappointing. The presence is still there and he focuses on it. It's no attacker; he or she would not have waited for him to gain consciousness. Whoever this is will get an earful for disrupting the dream of his bride.   
Anger is rising up in him and he snaps his eyes open; to look into the face of his mother. The anger displayed on it turns his into a puff of air and childish fear rises in him.   
"You're engaged?!"  
 _Oh. Oh, this is going to be bad._  
"How do you know already?" he croaks and sits up, rubbing a bit of sand out of his eye.   
"Mrs. Hooper visited us this morning. Imagine my surprise when she explained the reason for her visit."  
"I proposed yesterday evening. We left past midnight. How late is it?"  
"It's gone three, Sherlock!"  
Damn Mrs. Hooper for being an early riser.   
"Mother, I-"  
"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you use this lovely girl for some sort of distraction, I will put you over my knee and spank you just like I did after you burnt half the house down!"  
"It was only the curtains in the dining room and you didn't like them anyway."  
His mother draws a deep breath, like a dragon before breathing fire.   
"Sherlock, Molly is a wonderful girl and she loved you ever since she first laid eyes on you. If you hurt her-"  
"You knew she was in love with me?!"  
A rush of anger sends him out of the bed, standing. Even now that he towers over his mother, she is still the most dominant presence in the room. That doesn't stop his mouth, though.  
"Why didn't you tell me?!"  
"I thought you knew. I thought that's why you kept her at arm's length, being your usual charming self around her."  
He can't believe it. He just can't. Speechlessly he stares at his mother, blaming her for missing out on four years of kissing Molly. They share a look, his mother looking into the depths of his soul, learning all of his secrets.  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You've been in love with her all this time and what do you instead of courting her? You pulled her braids like a little school boy. What were you thinking?!"  
She laughs at him and playfully shakes his face by grabbing his chin.   
"I didn't know I was in love. I've never been in love before, how could I have known?"  
Mrs. Holmes sighs dramatically and shakes her head in disappointment, looking exactly like Mycroft.  
"Get dressed. We have things to discuss. Your father and Mycroft are in the living room, I'll go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea."  
"You brought Mycroft?" Sherlock complains with a childish shake of his shoulders.   
"Hurry", his mother only says with a warning look and leaves him to dress.   
Huffing like a little boy, he follows his mother's orders.

Sherlock's father greets him with a friendly smile and a proud pat on his shoulder.  
"My boy, finally growing up."  
There are no traces of blame, mockery or irony in his voice and Sherlock can't help but smile back at him; until his eyes fall on the face of his brother, that despised eyebrow high on his forehead, the blue eyes full of superiority. Sherlock glares at him and sits down in his chair. The other two Holmes' men sit down on the sofa. All of them wait for the head of the family.  
Mrs. Holmes comes back up a while later, Mrs. Hudson following with a tea tray.   
"Mrs. Hudson, how are you?" his father greets Sherlock's housekeeper cheerfully.   
"Mr. Holmes. Thank you, I am fine. Taking care of your son keeps me young."  
They share a laugh at Sherlock's expense. He doesn't care for it, but keeps quiet. Mrs. Hudson places the tea things on the table while Mrs. Holmes turns to Sherlock.   
"Now, Mrs. Hooper and I have already settled on the dowry."  
"I don't want a dowry, mother."  
"Dowry?" Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson but ignores her.   
"It's tradition, and Mrs. Hooper insisted. The families will meet for dinner thursday night, Mrs. Hooper will give the engagement ball in two weeks. Our turn to welcome Molly into the family will be on the 12th next month. Mrs. Hooper and I couldn't agree on the church yet-"  
"You are engaged to Molly?!"  
All Holmes' fall quiet at Mrs. Hudson's enraged shout. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Not her, too.   
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson."  
The tea pot clonks against the table as Mrs. Hudson angrily puts it down and leaves, muttering under her breath.   
_Great, just great._  
Sherlock inwardly sighs as his mother and then his brother keep discussing social events that had to be held during the engagement period and the plans for the ceremony. Within ten minutes he is bored out of his mind, when suddenly the melodies of violins and celli from yesterday are filling his head and he feels the warmth of a slender hand in his palm and the sway of a silk skirt against his trouser legs. The scent of jasmine fills his nose and a small smile spreads on his lips when he starts dancing with his Molly in the great hall of his mind palace.   
"You came to rescue me", he smiles down at her and she smiles right back, her eyes big and warm and full of feelings; for him.   
"I always will", she replies softly.   
Together they dance through the tirade of wedding plans and Sherlock endures it surprisingly well. Keeping quiet really makes things easier for him, he finds.   
Sweet relief rushes through him when his parents finally rise to leave, his father giving him a gentle hug and his mother a kiss on the cheek.  
"I love you, darling, and I'm so proud of you. You chose the right woman."  
There aren't many voiced expressions of love amongst his family members, especially since Eurus died, so his mother's soft tone catches him off guard. A lump forms in his throat and he blinks as this deeply buried need for motherly love surges through his veins.   
"Sh-She chose me."  
"So she did. Clever girl."  
They share a loving smile and Sherlock is confronted with the fact that he still cares a lot about what his mother thinks of his choices. Apparently, it's true what they say: Even after you've grown up and fled the nest, you'll always be your parents' child.  
  
With a bit of boyish affection he looks after his parents as they descend the stairs and turn the corner. Parents, he thinks almost fondly and turns around; to find his brother still standing in the living room. His good mood evaporates into thin air. Dark clouds form in his head. Straightening his back and puffing up his chest a little, Sherlock steps back into his - _his_ \- living room.   
They stand in front of each other and the big brother looks down the length of his nose at the little brother. This, of course, irritates the little brother immensely. By the time Mycroft finally decides to open his mouth, Sherlock's blood is already boiling.   
"Capital reserve? A case? Social experiment?... _Sexual_ curiosity?"   
Sherlock clenches his jaw. His fist is itching. It often does when Mycroft is around.   
"Get. Out."  
"You don't have to do this charade in front of me. Just tell me."  
He tries to make Molly reappear behind his eyes, but she doesn't show. So there is nothing to ease the rage. While he uses all his willpower not to punch his brother in his stupid face, Mycroft frowns.  
"Seriously? Marriage?"  
"Oh, you're really begging for it today, aren't you?"  
Mycroft tilts his head and- oh, that man has some nerve deducing him. When his traveling blue eyes focus back on his, Sherlock is sure in a minute his hand will hurt and his knuckles will be bruised. But then, something happens in his brother's eyes. The steel blue...it softens. Sherlock is confused, even more so when Mycroft breaks the eye contact first and puts his hands behind his back.   
"It's not easy, Sherlock. Domestic life. There are aspects of it that you'll may find...difficult to adjust to. There might be expectations she will have..."  
The blood in Sherlock's veins freezes. Oh dear God. This is not going to be this sort of talk, will it? Oh dear God. He barely survived the talk with his father when he was 15. And he surely won't survive his brother giving a speech about the sensual aspects about marriage.   
The brothers' eyes meet.  
"Oh. OH. No. No, no, no. That's...that's not what I was going to-"  
Almost as panicky as Sherlock is, Mycroft clears his throat and takes a step back.   
"You...you will figure that out on your own, I'm sure. But, um, communication is always a good idea-"  
"Oh, dear God, please stop talking!"  
Mycroft nods and clears his throat again. A moment of silence for them both to calm down. Then a deep intake of breath. Sherlock inwardly groans. His brother isn't done.  
"All I was trying to say is to give it time. Married life is a challenge, surely. There is an adjustment period. But...once you manage, you will find that domesticity can be...quite benefitial."  
A smug smile blooms on Sherlock's face. Mycroft has been married to Anthea for six years now. Originally exclusively founded on financial advantages, the marriage has become more for both of them within a year. Out of the corners of his eyes Sherlock watched them bond. Anthea is a very strong woman and fought for his respect like a tigress, not backing down once. At the same time she has been a dutiful, caring wife, and Mycroft learnt what it feels like to have someone by his side who supports him, come what may. Before he knew it, Mycroft was madly in love with her, trying desperately to appear unaffected. Every Holmes saw it, of course. None of them ever said a word. Mycroft Holmes is the proudest of them all.   
And now the proudest Holmes tries to give the second proudest advise on how to achieve domestic bliss. Hilarious.   
"Thank you, Mycroft. I'll...take that to heart."  
An uncomfortable smile, a nod, followed by awkward silence.   
"Well", finally Mycroft breaks the tension, "I have to go. Congratulations."  
Mycroft holds out his hand. Sherlock takes it. He feels closer to his brother than most of his life.   
All in all, this has been a surprisingly tolerable afternoon. Sherlock can't wait to tell Molly about Mycroft's marriage advise. She'll love it.

...But first, he has to go downstairs to be shouted at by his housekeeper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments. I am very touched and oh so happy that the story is so well received. I hope you will keep reading the second installment. If you liked "Being in love...", I promise you'll like "Being engaged...", as well. :)
> 
> Read you later!


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